Snippets of thoughts in a visually unique style.

Poetry

  • Reds

    Bright reds make me think of passion,
    of late nights entwined tightly together,
    the flush of cheeks contrasted by the ivory white of skin.
    Bright reds make me think of rage,
    a fight for your life against a foe you want to save,
    cherry handprints blistering against purple bruises.
    Bright red is the color of agony,
    of being pulled apart limb by limb, joint by joint,
    until all that’s left is a pile of torn ligaments and broken bones.
    Bright red is the color of ecstasy, of being lost in the moment, screaming for relief.
    It is out of control.

  • A Little Quiet and it All Comes Apart

    I feel as if I am an empty café.
    A closed door, with no one around, nothing but
    bright lights
    and uneaten
    food.

    Temporary.
    I am temporary.
    A little quiet, and I feel as if
    I will
    fall
    apart.

  • A Series of Letters

    Buried in habit,
    choking on repetition,
    suffocating under piles of
    dirt
    gravel
    sand.

    It’s so hard to release your fingers
    when you’ve been gripping
    with white knuckles
    for so
    long.

  • Abuse

    I asked for it.

    But your hands around my throat

    felt different from before.

  • Entwined

    Skin, rough against skin,

    my lips bruised from his force

    and his hips bruised from mine.

  • Scabs

    My leg is itchy.
    A “you can’t scratch this hard enough” kind of itchy.
    A “nails won’t cut it this time” kind of itchy.
    A “there’s a knife in my desk drawer” kind of itchy.

  • Clockwork

    6 o’clock
    There is no such thing
    as a defect,
    only a difference.
    Aren’t we all defective?

  • Space

    He was so small yet so significant

    He was the straw that broke the camel’s back

    and somehow I am the rest of the straws

    as well as the camel.

  • Time

    You didn’t stay,

    I didn’t expect you to.

    But we played on

    and grew together

    again.

  • Changing

    Sometimes good,

    sometimes bad,

    always “what changed?”

  • The Anthology

    I have poems in my mind

    but no words to give.

  • Drive

    The years between then and now
    were filled with motion sickness,
    rocking,
    dizzying,
    falling.

  • Wake

    No.

    It’s not because of you.

    …but you’re certainly not helping

  • Flight

    I want to feel the sun.

    I want to taste the ocean.

  • Resurrection

    As my ears rang from a gunshot I didn’t hear, I had a question:

    Did Jesus’ hands and feet tingle as he woke up from dying?

  • Pass

    But I can’t

    steer the ship I’m in,

    just watch the whims

    of the waves

    pass by.

  • Aurora

    I was lying in a field stargazing,

    waiting for the northern lights to peek over the trees

  • Cup

    I was sipping poison,

    the taste was bitter

    but at least my thirst

    was quenched.

  • Stripes

    Sometimes I want to

    p e e l

    the stretch marks off my body

  • Standing in a River

    Keep quiet.

    Keep still.

  • Desperation

    I have never been stranded in the desert…

  • Fireflies

    It's like trying to follow fireflies at dusk,

    blinking in and out of existence

    and leaving afterimages of thoughts

  • Decay

    I am dreaming of swimming in the river

    when in reality I’m simply lying in the bed.

  • Nothing

    I reach my hands into the ether,

    lazily tracing an airplane's path with my fingertips

  • Stars

    Floating on a flat expanse

    of water,

    clear skies

    and

    dark ripples.

  • Wrapped

    The world is cruel

    and so were you

    but at least I could feel it

    when you held me close

  • Corset

    "From what?"

    I'm not sure

  • Love Letter

    My transition

    is a love letter to myself

  • Erosion

    The river is the same

    but you can never keep the water.

  • Indoor Rain

    The fuzzy edges of memories

    are smudged

    against the condensation

    on the windows.

  • Anthology II

    My heartbeat marches on,

    destination unknown.

  • Running

    Then,

    when he feels as though

    he’ll never be warm again,

    he turns around.

Contact Me

nk-writing@proton.me