Literature
cobweb.
i.
i am writing myself into rooms,
four walls, four loves, four
atria pulsing in my chest. i am
writing myself into other people’s
arms as if it makes a damn
difference, i don’t know when
my own hands stopped being enough.
ii.
i am a girl made of oceans, i am a girl made of
glass, i am a body made of wax with a tongue
of fire. i have watched saturn drop through
its ring, plummeting into glacial seas and
frost-bitten remnants of constellations,
i have seen silence take shape and sit
heavy on my chest like a mourner
splayed on an empty coffin.
iii.
i have written my obituary in a
moment spent diving into concrete
tee
