Tag Archives: writing

They call her beautiful,
this rampant disaster
of folds and inner seas.

Impervious to everything,
she’s sealed shut,
reluctantly closed in.
Closed off,
zipped up with haphazard seams.

The interior design has
tangled itself,
darkly ravishing
devouring the mappings
until all these waters have been exiled.

She’s readied her drowning tools,
held every breath
until the stars illuminate
behind her eyes.

Her body’s made of pockets,
carrying cavities
built for signals
and secrets,
prepared for unfolding.

She busies the twine
between soft fingertips.
They call her beautiful,
words constructed
of insulation and costly vacancies.



Brooklyn is a diagram,
an atlas with
a body made of heartrending
pathways, at times strong,
occasionally tired, scarred, growing.

Brooklyn is relentless and real.
She’s mine. And hers.
But not yours, she says.

Brooklyn has charted
a lack of sacred space,
says its been stolen,
torn apart, burglarized.

She’s exiting this thing,
this mess of silence and disgust.
Says this vessel’s trading itself in
for a long-term relationship of resenting.

Brooklyn is all of these
underground mappings,
where the trains dart by too hastily,
where she can’t catch a breath,
where is she going?