I hide behind the veil of anonymity, uncovering just enough to feel exposed – baring breasts, hips, a facial silhouette – yet holding back just enough to feel safe. It’s a bizarre balance of telling secrets and keeping them, flirting with discovery, and fearing it. I cannot tell you my name, but I can tell…
When he’s away, my world becomes quiet. Like going underwater, at first it seems pleasant — my senses pare down to only the essentials, sight and touch. But as I sink into it, the weight of his absence bears down on my chest, and my surroundings grow dark. I feel tendrils of panic welling up…
She hadn’t blossomed in some time, but her leaves were green and supple still, strong from years of withstanding the weather. And there was hope. Spring was coming. Inside, she felt the stir, and wondered if maybe this would be her year. 0
I study your skin as it meets mine: yours – calloused, dark, and searching, my own – light and expectant. Pressed together, we become one flesh, glued by sweat and propelled by energy, our contents binding together. We are synthesis in motion, visceral and changeable, our properties exploding upon impact. In your arms, I slip…
I like to keep the things I write so I can go back and consider who I was when I wrote them…at a distance…like an anthropologist. It is easier to investigate my faults from space rather than in the midst of committing them. Today, I went back and read the four poems I wrote this…
