poetry

Dirty

In the end we’re only dirt.

o, winter

winter tucks us under his blanket again

Citrus

There is sourness in the winter canned citrus.

salt

is it better to speak or to die?

meditation

i dream for the same reason i breathe & i dream for the sake of feeling

ignition

we gathered up some words and piled on the couch:

Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf—Thursday, January 21, 1926 “I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is just really a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become.”

when i tell my mother i love her

vita says this letter is / a squeal of pain.

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