(poet's note: trigger warning. References to emotional abuse, suicide and gender dysphoria.) I keep my curtains open so I can see the sky
I can see the slightest light on the wall and single point of light in a high flying cloud.
There was a picture of a mother and a child, I don't know who they were,
The girl had a cigarette in her mouth and the mother was smiling, hands raised as if to preen and love, and the disassociation overwhelmed and washed at the stage play of
My grandmother is old. Gleaming bars at every staircase and a seat in the shower old. A tall woman, though - she wears big mama pantyhose, and violet sun-dresses that hang limp on pasty underarms and are as crumpled and loose as her skin. Her and I, we go to the laundromat every Thursday, straining under the weight of the whole family’s dirty clothes, helping each other up if we fall. Except lately I’ve been doing all the heaving and she just hobbles along. Today was so hot,
Light is like a weed. It can grow anywhere, Light or dark. It can crawl up the walls covered in the shade of death. Light can grow anywhere, even In the darkest places imaginable. Light is like a weed. It can grow everywhere. #3rdedition