The smallest hello.

Well hey there, hot stuff. I haven’t used this dang thing in years. So here we are, back at it again. I don’t think I need to explain this to you. I so deeply enjoy the classic (read: antiquated, old school, or just plain old) blogging format. And since the apocalypse is nigh upon us, why not?

I stopped writing on here for a hundred thousand reasons, including an attempt to find the line between oversharing and bleeding yourself dry.

Welcome back, to me, and to you. If you’ve been here before, I super don’t live out of a backpack anymore and I stopped dating that one guy (the first guy I ever dated), so things look a little different. We got it.

Here’s a poem I wrote about two years ago. I found it on a scrap of paper months ago, and kept meaning to type it up. When I finally did, it hit. Hit hard and different. Funny how we manifest ourselves. I’m sharing it now. Enjoy, you sweet thing.

were I to dismantle you
I’d start in your mouth. 

I’d take your teeth, 
your tongue, 
the slick of your cheeks, 
the pitch of your voice, 
the reds and pinks
every brown and white
spot freckle bend curve wet the slick wet
and lay them flat, 
every last piece of your voice box the roof of your
one after the other on a shining
piece of glass
to glisten in the sun
or rot in the rain. 

I have no intentions of preserving you, 
you are a-historic, you
are part fiction all rhyme scheme
a science a seam
would survive 

you survive me.

like a dust devil you
dissipate but never settle.
so I take your mouth.

how beautiful you are,
a tongue full of you
a mouth wet with you
(oh lord my hands wander the upright of your spine
the righteous arch in your skepticism your brow bone your blood)

I take your mouth.

I focus on what I can taste.

this is the body this is the blood laid on your salt palette focus on the salivary breakdown.

I leave your
skeleton upright.


I’d only take you apart to see how you worked. The
cogs and gears and the gift of your gristle. 

I’d sleep long hours with
the meat of you, only to build
you back up into a fully 
articulated idol sometimes
I worship when 
I ought to love. 

It’s so complicated being
heretical. Dismantled. 
Fallen down. Historically, we rebuild. 

Dry rot in the sanctuary is a sign of use and temple doors carelessly flung open.

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