It was a stilling cold. A cold that didn’t hold you in place so much as it sucked motion from your bones. Life, the fool that it was, never knew when to retreat. But it had been reduced to a pricking feeling at the tips of Hammond’s fingers and toes— a numbing, staticky memory of warmth that martyred itself at the edges of existence.

Movement was wrong. When Hammond tried it, the needles of pain...

Please understand,

I am slow, these days;

once etherized & exteriorized

a hundred thousand ways.

You tell me, do what the doctor says.

But that’s a life I can’t imagine living.

Strangled tissue rarely dies

a quiet, peaceful death;

is it so wrong to let it lie?

To consider it unwise

to revive a thing

that only played at being alive?

The heart knits itself

up a little wrong,

puts stitches...

None of us were strangers to conflict. Working at a dry cleaner in a neighbourhood like this, you see some things. You meet humans at their lowest, desperate to steam their sins away.

I thought I knew all the ways one man could turn on another, but a grey peacoat with a mustard stain proved me wrong.

When I found that little beige card, I wasn’t surprised. Dissapointed, maybe. But not surprise...

The formal hoop always comforted me. I could drape my clothform over the plastic, keeping it far away from my body, separating my private self from my official role. The light, silky underlayer gave me comfort and space to think. I valued the awareness that no one was close to touching my physical body. For younger envoys, it could be hard to keep your cool in the feigned intimacy of a diplomatic ...

Beg the dopamine dealer

to inject a burst of cheer,

a comedic concealer,

a brief relief from the fear....

He said, “You are the spring

sky full of hope.”

So I let the rainwater

soak my hair,

now he drinks as the birds

and bees elope.

(I think you’d drown

to prove to him you care).

He said, “To me you

are the summer shade.”

So I blocked the sun

‘til I was burning,

& when I fainted

he was so betrayed.

(Yet his touch will always

leave you yearning.)

I stayed when he said,

“If you’re gone I’m ...

The particle board splinters.

My rough touch is too much

for what I can afford.

This thing is precious to me

in its necessity

&now its cracks

spread across my ribs;

(I plea with myself,

it’s just a shelf,

it’s just a shelf.)

parts without places

scattered on the floor.

someone else is crying

inside my body. I live

as the lost pegs

under the dresser

drawer, lying

to my dust bunny confessor...

Maybe you thought your cup

was empty when the love came

spilling out—

your chapped lips

pressed against the rim

to wash away the taste of doubt

maybe you thought its contents toxic,

a complex bacterial court—

but from that stagnant cup

you drank a thick, sweet summer port

I know how dear the taste would be

from the cup that we now share.

I know it when our fingers brush,

when I smell your coc...

The horse

only sees the carrot

and not the string—

long days and late nights

force me to ask:

by chasing happiness

am I driving it

further away?...

It was a question of faith.

The wind’s heavy hands pushed Monica back and away from the edge. It stole the heat from her body, pushed her hair in front of her eyes, doing what it could to draw her away from the crumbling grey rock and onto the grass.

Few things in existence were deserving of faith. If your loyalty was rewarded, it was a matter of luck, not anything divine, not anything sacred o...