Writing

Remember how our pictures were gold? They only looked gold because I couldn’t see how the gold can fade and show rust underneath. The sparkle was gone, but I kept clawing at the gold plating anyway. I wondered if my fingertips could paint over rust so the gold could stay.

For archiving purposes, I present my spwm poems from 2019 in their unedited glory.

We hang photos on your wall. We fill your shelves with books I’ve yet to read. The window is open again, smoke billowing from the other end of your cigarette. They paint pictures on the

This isn’t the first time the doctor can’t tell what’s wrong with me.