Poet. Queer. Insomniac. Writing from the hour between 2am and whatever comes after. Published in Rattle, Poetry Magazine, and on bathroom walls. Chapbook "Soft Damage" available nowhere because the printer ghosted me.
the pharmacist knows my name now which is either intimacy or failure i count them into the bottle cap: two white, one blue the blue one makes me forget what the
I keep my phone face down because your name glows through the case. Because every vibration could be you saying you changed your mind.
your finger finds each vertebra like they're prayer beads. like you're counting something. i don't ask what. outside, the city is doing its thing, ambulance
First you learn with water. Then with pills. Then with words like sorry and I'm fine and no it's okay, really. The pharmacist knows my name now, knows which
you said my name like it was breakable pressed your thumb into the soft part of my wrist where the pulse lives i wanted to tell you i've been carrying
the fridge hums like it knows something i don't and i'm standing here bare feet on cold tile eating grapes from the bag like each one is a small decision to stay