Parlay

Is it that I’ve become the kind of woman who becomes like the men she’s loved?Careless, callous about the white string laced between her fingers, the pulse of organ and trust, entitled to the world, the thrust: He warned me about becoming, about wrenching the Read More …

Ode to She

she’s not beatenbut is internally bruised she’s not floggedbut her wounds fester she’s not silencedbut her tongue’s cut out she’s not chokedbut is strangled she’s not sacrificedbut her heart, still beating, is she’s not rapedbut is raped she’s not thrown in the holebut declines in Read More …