Personal Catalog
I looked to the floor, to the door where you stood no more. Bright then, in the den, you asked why it was I couldn’t do this before. I said, I am not sure I must have needed more to pull forth this softening and pour in once more.
Personal Catalog
I exist in the liminal space, the spots the clock sought to erase. Nothing here has the same taste. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this pace. I stare into the sky, questioning is there even outer space?
Personal Catalog
I called her Ling Ling; it was an inside joke with the root long forgotten, and we just accepted its cultural appropriation and leaned into it, as most offensive New Englanders do. I was sitting at work, the same desk I occupied from 2009–2014. The year was 2012 when
Personal Catalog
I stood looking out at the pool, my mind loud with accusation and judgment. You didn’t even use it. Wasted season. Wasted experience. Wasted life. But why? Why was I supposed to use it? Because the seasons said so? Because the calendar dictated it so? Then came the feeling
Personal Catalog
I watched my mother paint, Concealing covertly, but painting. To cover hate, From a plate of which she never ate. I watched her cover over blue and purple With beige and cream. I watched a woman too afraid to dream. I watched her fake a life She failed to create.