you’ll blame Sylvia Plath for the twist of your spine, backing away from a fist. vertebral space offers no respite — no lost map no running car no answers from scrying mirror or poisoned cup. * bouquets of electricity will fill your chest with different vision, the traffic-sound of some god will remove your restraints.
Love all of this - especially:
you’ll write psych ward haiku
with a contraband pencil
while an arsonist describes
his burning home in perfect detail.
a true story always makes the best poetry. (group therapy with that dude was always a trip)
🤯💛🌻
And I want that sweater!
you’ll have to fight me for it!
My new favorite work of art from you 💜
Wowsers. This one got me right in my solar plexus Aunty Kath❤️