Three Poems a Day
Poetry
Poetry taught her how to read — not just the letters on the page, but the emotions moving beneath them.
Start reading ↓
Poetry taught her how to read — not just the letters on the page, but the emotions moving beneath them.
Start reading ↓
Call me! Mr. Cigar. Who are you going to tell?
The girl who bullied me // had greasy skin and half-moon nails,
I didn’t want to break up with you // over a poem, // the truth is
Some things are easy. // I say that a lot— // life is easy, // and I mean it // when the room is quiet.
Her shoulders stopped living near her ears.— Where Are Your Hands
Weight did not send her elsewhere.
She does not know how to fake that.
She watched him step closer
and did not step back—
not because she wanted more,
because she does not know how to make less.
Her heart does not speak casually.
It does not survive being opened
and told it is misunderstood.
She cannot.
My moodiness swings above the chandelier. The salad fork practices for vegetables I refuse to eat.
My body is dragged back to the hot leather backseat of my grandfather’s car, where I shimmy my legs, trying to escape the burn of leather cooked by the sun.
Call me! Mr. Cigar. Who are you going to tell?
Most traps don't look like cages. Most arrive smiling, asking how your day was.
It smelled nice, hid the cigarettes // And when he forgot to brush his teeth.
same light sits on the same corner of the floor
I burned my clothes in a metal drum behind the building. The smoke stayed low to the ground; it didn’t want to be seen leaving, either.
I didn’t want to break up with you // over a poem, // the truth is
She writes three poems a day. Only a fraction of them ever leave the notebook.
My moodiness swings above the chandelier. The salad fork practices for vegetables I refuse to eat.
My body is dragged back to the hot leather backseat of my grandfather’s car, where I shimmy my legs, trying to escape the burn of leather cooked by the sun.
Call me! Mr. Cigar. Who are you going to tell?
Most traps don't look like cages. Most arrive smiling, asking how your day was.
It smelled nice, hid the cigarettes // And when he forgot to brush his teeth.
same light sits on the same corner of the floor
I burned my clothes in a metal drum behind the building. The smoke stayed low to the ground; it didn’t want to be seen leaving, either.
I didn’t want to break up with you // over a poem, // the truth is
Her shoulders stopped living near her ears...
Her body remembered things...
I woke to the windows beaded in dew...
The girl who bullied me // had greasy skin and half-moon nails,
I love dolling up. // Twirling to music as I smack my lip stain,
Some things are easy. // I say that a lot— // life is easy, // and I mean it // when the room is quiet.
Her shoulders stopped living near her ears...
That the air will taste crisper, my sheets will feel softer, the sun brighter, and my mind easier.
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