home:

It felt like a Friday night.

Like a suicide note after too much red.

I mix my ink with rose water.

You can smell love in every stroke.

I used to write in cursive,

my hands shake more than they used to.

My stacks of books and paper collect dust.

A pleasant home for spiders.

Do you think Foucault would mind?

There’s a crack in my window.

Cold air comes through it even in June.

When something is broken I cherish it more.

A doll with its stuffing pulled out,

it wears the scars of being loved.

I’m comfortable with the cobwebs,

the cracks, the splinters.

Every little injustice that formed you.

Each one an invitation,

to write love letters on your skin.