What did they take from you to make you so afraid?

Did you forget your own two hands?

Where did you leave all of your armor?

Have you forgotten the tools you built? The weapons we built for you?

What did they take from you to make you so afraid?


The First Time I Broke You Open

I dug into this orange today and it reminded me of you

The skin broke easy under my thumb and forefinger, and was thicker than I expected

The membrane broke just slightly under pressure once exposed

And a trail of juice ran down the side of my thumb

I licked it off, quickly, before it dropped off the edge of my hand

Folds of orange petals pressed up, alert through the white skin

And I moved my fingernails carefully around them

I split the orange once, then twice, then into quarters

Picked from the shelf it was warm as I peeled it, warm as I tasted the first slice

It tasted like vodka,

There’s orange peel under my sticky hands

My unwashed hands smell of you

Rather, what reminds me of you



I Can’t Believe This Is Happening

Who can?
Who can rationalize being left behind?
Can you rationalize betrayal, a hot coal unexpectedly thrown in your face?

Go mad with grief.
Set fire to the brush and let the seeds watch.

Be unapologetic in tattooing your pain wherever you step.
Be seen. Be felt. Mourn.

Don’t regret.
Come to terms with the unbelievable.