; a cotyledon i.e. a draft, an embryonic poem

(this doesn't include the many books I stopped reading and put aside for later, which is something I'm happy I learned how to let myself do this year)

After "Autopsy" by Donte Collins 

I become a pigeon, stretchmarks and re-situated pain plunge me into a passion for living. No, I don't want to release but reel in the unforgiving nature of skin and our oblong bodies. Lavender rain trickles into the cracks in obtuse shapes, acute bones protruding on replanted neon green grass. Together, we are geometric goo [...]

You compare your tree to mine,the rust and the water, it all circulates in the same sky. You compare your rocks to mine, higher or longer, more or less, and the space we occupy becomes our very life, how we count wrinkles, the taste of salt stings out tongue so that we cannot taste anything [...]

I was sitting on the top of my dad's four door beige-tan Honda, eating watermelon down to the rind with my cousin only two weeks older than me, and I told him that maybe I'm just not a patriotic person. I was probably under ten, and sitting in the middle of cars and pull-out lawn [...]