WRITING

I want to crawl out of my skin prison/back into my mothers womb/ beg her to birth me again/ press restart on the TV show that is my life...

The walls of my bedroom have become both a sanctuary and a prison. My bed, the sacred place where my heart drowns in its own anatomy no...

this is my scrapbook of dreams, my variations on a memory. i’m afraid if my chest bursts, thousands of paper cranes will soar outwards...