Notes // that night

That night was the certain type of perfect

Where the moon is not yet gone, still cuts like a scythe through the sky

I should have known from the moment he said that Clara was his favourite companion,

That there was never any hope

I was never blown into this world on a leaf,

I fell crashing through it, in a short skirt dressed as a kiss-o-gram dressed as a police officer

I never was an impossible girl, saving worlds and baking soufflés

I am a wasp’s nest

And I have stung too many hands bare and red

To be anything close to what he wanted.

I wanted to tell him that night

When everything was the way he said he had always hoped for

That I hadn’t drunk too much

That he still had his shoes on

That night I was beautiful, and he was never meant to notice.

And he never did.

Lightness // Shrinking Women

There are things I want to say to you

I peel them off me

Fold them into books

Put them underneath furniture to stop them from wobbling

How many hours have I spent hidden under rugs

Dripping peppermint oil over my fingertips

Hoping that would bring closure

The smell burns cool down my throat

And I wonder if this is what resolution feels like

Every day I trim away parts of myself

I never know peace until I am throwing away

The superfluous

My rubbish bin is overflowing

With history, with smells and old clothes and memories that no longer fit

I continue to shrink

Some days I believe that if I become smaller

I will have more control

I once talked to a friend about the lightness of being

Removing boats, cities, worlds

Until there was nothing but lightness

So I continue to let go

Measuring my intake in shot glasses

Forbidden to take more than what will fit through a straw

Closing my world until I can control it with bits of string

Tied to parts of my room

Back to my fingers where I can pull

What I want closer, another string to move things away

I walk through aisles of empty glass bottles

I whisper “protect me from what I want”

As my hands reach out for everything

“You want too much” I say

As if this condemnation of my hungry soul is enough

To stop me from burning my fingers

On flaming skin

You want too much

Your skin is blistered and seared

Your world has gotten too small

Since when did you forget about being large enough to hold the universe?

them hands. them lungs. them fingers filled with fire.

For the strange women whose hearts beat at three hundred and sixty six beats per minute

For the ones that wanted so badly to

Take the stars in their palms

And give them to beautiful faces on the streets, even with burnt and blackened hands

For the children who live on forest floors

And the wives of mountains

Who know the inside of wolves’ mouths and are never afraid

For the ones who know the underside of the water and the overside of the skies

Who know the hearts of mountains and will sing to them

For the girls who live with oceans in their blood

And boys with fishermen as hands

And hooks the size of hearts

And hearts so much bigger

That they catch on everything

You fit so completely into your skin

With hands that only your fingers can fill

And lungs which only know how to breathe your own air

For the ones who keep tallies on their skin of how many times a day they fall in love

Wash it off in sleep

And still wake the next day covered in numbers

For the ones who love without abandon

Create without abandon

Breathe in through them lungs of yours without abandon

Breathe in through them lungs without abandon

Keep on breathing

Keep on breathing because this is what sets you apart from the stars

And they burn themselves up with jealousy because of it

Keep on beating that blood through them veins

It’s an uphill battle

But the seas, they see

And they feel the same

Fighting their own to caress them mountains you call home

Keep on creating

Without abandon

Filled with fever

This burning in them fingertips that only your fingers can fill

Them forests only you know

And keep on going