poetry
We are all the saints of shit.No one notices until your miracles become public.
He moves righteously, his booming proclamations offaith birthed from a place between…
Daddy called her Princess,and she liked the way the *esses* launched from his lipslike barbs…
Life to this beautiful one is perpetual insomnia.When it stops kicking her in the ass is the…
Why must the walls always match the sofa? And who willed itthat the duvet should…
There is a devil in this stone floor; I can see its profane face in the cracks, through the…