Free Therapy
Laughing until My abdominal muscles can No longer contain my chortles Until the grey delta of mascara and tears Flood my face My hands clasping my knees For support because I am so full of air Grateful to float without my anchors And forget about the weight of breathing.
1 Comment
Visitor’s Pass
An ounce more of self-control, a sliver of luck (or lack thereof): the only forces separating us, besides the guards gazing suspiciously through the stagnant air and electric gates lurching heavily to block access in the rusted chain-linked maze. Inside, we taunt stiff officers with our giggles escaping freely out of our bellies, ricocheting off of out-of-service vending machines. Our hopes work as balm on wounds inflicted by mistakes; our smiles serve as shade from the heat of other inmates’ glares. We share memories to feel. We plan the faraway future to hope. We throw jokes to forget, like skipping stones dancing on the duct-taped linoleum, our laughter bursting out defiantly floating around the watchful tower and beyond the crowded walls. The Words She Wore
When she first spoke, words were leaden with bookish facts sandwiched with rehearsed one-liners like a stiff, over-sized suit: It was pressed, it was clean but could not conceal her slouch and anxious smile, with pointy shoulders and boxed silhouette heaping years onto her youthful façade. with practice and wheeling seasons she continued her quest for knowledge exploring the narratives of sages uncovering truths from storytellers, playing matchmaker for her ambitious neurons, phrases, and clauses. soon, her words became a faded, well-worn band t-shirt fitting her like a glove mapping the uncharted curves, twists and turns she always knew her mind held. *Originally published on Virgogray Press |
AuthorWord by word, I piece together the pictures and stories in my head. Archives
March 2021
Categories |