Unpublished and unfinished poetry
Sometimes 2022, undated The truth is — my fingers have forgotten how to write poetry The same way my eyes have forgotten to recognize my own reflection Sometimes I used my fingertips to trace the lines of my body The body that had loved me Held me all these years But sometimes feels foreign to me because I have practiced bending it around others A mediocre contortionist I have learned the acrobatic art of bending without breaking Filling spaces that feel unnatural Of shapeshifting Of being all the things. August 4, 2022 3:48 a.m. In lieu of “I love you” We were too late to be each other’s first loves The way well fell into each other felt less like late and more like a casual stroll The lull of time seemed to exist in the space in between (Another attempt) When I was young and reckless in love I wrote lines and lines of poetry Speaking of time and distance, the speed of which one falls in love Enamored with the wa...