(november 1)
I will avoid saying the things that come to mind
In effort to drum up some miniscule portion of creativity.
I am afraid of love.
I willingly capture it so eagerly with my weaker left palm
But my stronger right arm londs it closer but will not grasp.
Do you know what it’s like to sit on the edge
And hate it
And not be able to move
where were you when I was softer
like spring leaves on tender branches
dreaming of the day someone would be able to understand my thoughts and forced poetic predispositions.
now there is space for healing (and that is good)
but with the spaces comes miles and miles of distance from the inner workings of my brain
which is continually filled by the hum of other human bodies around mine in close proximity
(but not too close, we are still in a pandemic, after all)
now I eat salted lime tortilla chips on my bed and wish that I had had bought fruit instead.
