Andalusian lady. Mad Ireland hurt me into Poetry. Writing songs for ghosts. Guilty for the metaphors. Healing from the cold-ness.
I remember the first time I met youIt was around the time when November mourns the dead.It feels like one year…
Winter 2017Our troops gathering along the banksof the River Lee
I’m not vomiting rainbowsNot bleeding raspberry jamThis hurt is physicallike a stab in the back
The vessel is brokenIts content spilledOnly flesh and muscle nowI don’t know what to do with it