my skin is lying

and I am taking

in my own damaged

body, holding it like a

bag of broken bones and

pleading with the

voices like fragments in my

own head that there are

still things left, still things

left to believe in.

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a note on writing simply

I read Bukowski and the colours

pop from inside the

pages even though the paper is all

black and

white and I step

wanderingly upon the

concrete on my way to another

dance class with another

teacher and life feels

recklessly

casual despite all the hours and

names scrawled into my

schedule and I wonder why I am

so terrified by the

crudeness of his

poetry and why I am so

certain of

failing if I try to make

pretty out of

modernity.

I keep your flowers on the windowsill

you creep into my bones on wintry mornings
while the light tiptoes its way across my white bedsheets and
I recall Bukowski in my head claiming love like
serious illnesses

while I smuggle earl grey
tea in between the lips of December promises and
wonder how you recover from love that spills
into your coffee cup or if

love is even love if
it requires recovering from.