One Hundred and Forty-Eight.


Izzy circle


sometimes I hope I only have sons.
it seems easier to teach someone how to be kind
than how not to break, how to repair the cracks

sometimes the feel of skin on skin is a sacrament
other times, it’s like sandpaper
it leaves you raw, stinging and burnt

sometimes I cry for no reason, at least
no reason that’s nameable, no defined bruise
just a general realisation that hatred is real
and it brought guns


Sarah circle


Cleave open my thighs and see what’s rotting inside
Come find your own face in the pitchy dank places
Little diver, your lanterns will sputter and die
From this velvety darkness no man has returned



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