Scorching in a way the April sun never was. / Scorching in a way a fever never feels. / It wasn't just grief
Then you will vanish—becoming Amma, Chachi, Mami. No one will remember your name.
I made my first kite out of white paper scraps; on my 16th birthday, it came to me that they needed a pop of color.
I am not a single name. Not a single wound.
Grey chips of rough cement Rust rubble all around,
This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
The moon is a cheeseball, Cratered, yellow, and huge like your eyeballs
I rush to the mirror. My gums are pristine, no wound, no sin. But when I look back at the fruit, the truth reveals itself: the flesh is blackened, writhing with tiny, hungry mouths. The rot has teeth
Moving mindlessly and / Etching every alley along the way / With verses devoted to you
Scorching in a way the April sun never was. / Scorching in a way a fever never feels. / It wasn't just grief
Then you will vanish—becoming Amma, Chachi, Mami. No one will remember your name.
I am not a single name. Not a single wound.
I made my first kite out of white paper scraps; on my 16th birthday, it came to me that they needed a pop of color.
Grey chips of rough cement Rust rubble all around,
This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
The moon is a cheeseball, Cratered, yellow, and huge like your eyeballs
I rush to the mirror. My gums are pristine, no wound, no sin. But when I look back at the fruit, the truth reveals itself: the flesh is blackened, writhing with tiny, hungry mouths. The rot has teeth
Moving mindlessly and / Etching every alley along the way / With verses devoted to you
Who do I tell, sir? The walls do not listen, The roads do not answer back
