Moving box blues

Tastes like cardboard, you say, face scrunched, wistful of a mother’s recipe you haven’t yet mastered. I swallow my offense: this may be the last time I hear it; your voice. Stacked by the front door with my fellow fallen…

Ode to Morning

Nighttime sighs her last goodbyes, Sweet sunlight trickles in. I've never moved my arm so fast, This alarm makes such a din. My muscles ache, my eyelids burn, Don't ask about my head. If I must do this every day– I wish that I…