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Lord, I confess I want the clarity of catastrophe but not the catastrophe.
Dystopia between people who have hurt each other too many times to keep speaking;
the grocery store, I gently squeeze every avocado. When people stare, I say, “Don’t criticize my mourning process!”
Atrocity fractals [like a fern]. No more nature metaphors.
After all, I’m made of distance
What’s the German word for preemptively missing something so much you can’t look at it. Literal translation: green green green and I hide my face.
I miss you like I miss the trees.
The trees are here! Everyone’s outside, darling: green in my hands, ghosts in the drywall—everyone’s waiting for us.
What happened between us is a silence, and silence is all that happened after.
No one could have told me I was possible
