Untitled

I collect your words
into an anthology of things you’ve said.
Every fragment, every sentence, every word.
Every truth, every lie.
Every hypocrisy, and every promise.
I collected your words
into an anthology of things you’ve said,
and burned them to release them
from their cages of ink and paper,
to release them from their cage
of flesh and bones.

Untitled

my fingers are cold.
ive rubbed them against my pants
time and time again.
god,
god,
my hands are damp.
—and i cant get them dry.
i need to get out,
i need to get out of this skin.
this skin that doesn’t listen,
this body that doesn’t move
—i just want it to move
move a little bit.

there’s something wrong
with me.

Sand

I was empty when you found me
so you filled me with the weight of sand
and departed with the lightest smile
believing you had done me well.