the knocking is a serenade

At night; your men are armed to teeth/ the timbre of their boots outside my gates/ a proposal past. A river; the rock split into blood and /thorns seducing their way out /miserable gaps of solitude. The dogs; rising to the occasion/ pouring their vile hatred of you/ signalling your imminent arrival. The house; your …

13/03/2018: A Log

I woke up distant and resigned from my usual state of being, a state of pretence where I wake up not looking terrible in my face and my mother unsuspecting of anything wrong with me. Though sometimes, when it’s only us, she catches the whiff of my sadness like I am guilty of something; I …