poem: teenagers aren’t humanity, but the horror comes close

he cut her up inside the grand blue gray there is amourous floating of livers and other passions, there is repression. he cut himself up and she cried out she was his hand, his wrist, his perfect dead face after the school imploded. we are living too quickly to catch the blood there are insides…

poem: again

it started again in her later years, when she had only just declared independence. she sat alone (again) and bit her thumb with the intention of blood. at first it was art class with the good conversations spinning away from her like spanish gold and she was too shy to walk from ceramics to drawing…

poem: highschool is over (cheers to this)

i am spinning in a blue dress and to first follow him i must be all of myself, not for the matriarchy but for my small ascendence into what He envisioned. this is not high school: strangers will smile at you, later, i promise. Also, listen: the depression and the choas will not go away…