In April,
I was one...

And of all roots –
I’ve eschewed yours...

dip your fingers in the blood-red skies like you...
with alta dye – tonight, i will study your hands...

Wash the sins out of my ribcage with downpour,
the monsoon cannot swell fast enough to abate...

Shall we feast on the carousel of words that
I will prepare in your honour, tonight...

how cruel of april? to barge in with anger in her...
and you’re still there in the morning...

tell me why
i feel more holy in your palms...

you are like the stirring waters of the sea,
salt-wind licks your hair and tousles it in...

you trample me with your soft fingers;
clay in your palms – i am clay in your hands...

what is prayer to one who knows exactly what
they want but do not have the nerve to reach out...

hold me in the palms of your hands
and shred me apart as if it were the first...

we are scar-tissue; we’ve been wounded but
internalize the pain. i will let myself bleed for...