word-stained-hands

[word-stained-hands]

wandering through nature scenery

[word-stained-hands]

i think it’s a blessing and a curse to be this self-aware at my age. the girl has been inside all day and feels icky and overtired. the girl should go on a walk. at the end of the walk she’ll feel better but not perfect. what shall she do if she still feels sad? there are only so many cures to the deep sadness inside a teenage girl.

teenage girl, 8/24/23

[word-stained-hands]

adventuring through forest spots

[word-stained-hands]

the water crashes into the shore

explodes in white

soft like the icing on a grandma’s cake

whipped egg white

this one tastes of salt

not sugar

there is nothing sweet about the sea.

except

down

down

down

down

down

on the sunlit sandy seafloor

the nascence of life

a shiny pearl in an oyster's womb.

seasalt & pearls, 8/2/23

[word-stained-hands]

i know nobody will ever know me as well as i know myself

i learned this and i grew

but you never knew me as well as i knew you

never loved me like i loved you, too.

ex-best-friend, 6/9/23

[word-stained-hands]

i love spring

[word-stained-hands]

red shines on my untouched mouth

oh, to be a woman.

i wish i was unkissed, 5/26/23

[word-stained-hands]

“there are, on this planet alone, something like two million naturally occurring sweet things, some with names so gorgeous as to kick the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon, stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks at the market. Think of that. The long night, the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah. But look; my niece is running through a field calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel and at the end of my block is a basketball court. I remember. My color’s green. I’m spring.”

— Ross Gay, excerpt of “Sorrow Is Not My Name”, in Bringing the Shovel Down

[word-stained-hands]

you work all day.

not very hard.

why would you work hard?

you don't have a lot of work

and it's the

morning

noon

afternoon

evening

night

and you want to go to bed early 

(to be more productive in the morning, that's why)

but there's one thing you haven't finished

and one thing you haven't started

and one thing you haven't even thought about

(oh, but you're thinking about it now, you are, you are)

and the night is young

(but you won't be, not for much longer)

(but you wanted to go to bed early)

(but)

(but the next morning you scroll to the top and start all over again, life.)

night owl, 4/16/23

[word-stained-hands]

i am a quilt falling apart at the seams

moth-eaten

torn

faded

won't you stab my skin with needles

until i am whole again?

(quilt, 3/13/23)

[word-stained-hands]

Warsan Shire, from "Extreme Girlhood", Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head

[word-stained-hands]

Franny Choi, from "Perihelion: A History of Touch"

[word-stained-hands]

Goache

[word-stained-hands]

there's a boy in my physics class. tall, freckled, blonde basketball player. ugly haircut. i think it goes like that a lot. the ugly inside get uglier haircuts.

i have to work with him a lot. we sit at the same table. it isn't all bad. he puts his head down and does his work. he's smart.

he gets restless sometimes. but don't we all?

i guess my problem with it is that i can't control it. he gets restless, and i get mad. roll my eyes, tell him, come on, we have to do this. come on, man, this is group work, you have to cooperate. come on.

he gets restless, i get mad. he's tall, i'm not.

i guess it's a little ridiculous. getting yelled at by a five feet tall girl with dark circles under her eyes because she stays up late writing poetry.

that doesn't mean it felt nice when he laughed.

(ugly haircut, 2/9/23)

[word-stained-hands]

[via]

[word-stained-hands]

[word-stained-hands]

It is the morning. I walk down the stairs. They creak under my feet. It is quiet downstairs. Nobody is awake. The sun spills across the counter like the burst yolk of an egg. I open the fridge. On the counter, I place milk, eggs, butter, bread, cinnamon, vanilla. I turn on the stove. I grab a pan. The egg soaks my fingers as I dredge the bread. My mother always told me to use a fork. I wash my hands as the bread sizzles in the pan, listen. Birds chirp outside, egg cooks in the pan behind me, and I breathe. Breathe in and out, feel my lungs move inside of my chest. I am inside of my head, and I am inside of my body. The world moves around me, and I breathe. In, out. Cinnamon, butter. I turn back to the stove, flip the french toast. The world is loud, and the world is quiet. I am a child of the world.

(french toast, 2/6/23)