it was in the dark stairwell of an old apartment building where i drunkenly sang myself blue for a beautiful woman whose naked lips tasted of fresh marlboro reds and pressed pomegranate oil when i woke this morning the smell of her supple skin lingered faintly still on my pillow and on my red-purple stained… Continue reading Pomegranate.
The morning I decided that the love I will cultivate for myself will no longer be a conditional and sacrificial act, I fell ill with a head cold. The irony of it all is simply hilarious. But the metaphor behind the fever is stunning nonetheless, and absolutely worth unpacking because it is quite telling of… Continue reading I am taking up space and I am not apologetic about it.
What does it really mean to unravel?