STEPHANIE YUE DUHEM

May You Live in Interesting Times

And the monkey’s paw curls
around mine.

I’m another monkey
pretender.

I’m a cloth mother
an LLM brain.

Monkeys paw me for love
but I only give them language.

Maneki-Neko

How to beckon the good:
Play Top 40 on the road.

Sing along.
Replace song

lyrics with “meow.” Beget
luck and money, little cat.

Stephanie Yue Duhem is a poet and essayist in Austin. Her debut poetry collection, CATACLYSM MOVES ME I REGRET TO SAY, is now available from House of Vlad Press. 

LEONORA DORA DONOVAN

The Pussy Gazette

Fourth floor suite in the downtown area. The doors, encrusted staccato marrow, and, inside them, bushed freely, all sorts creep crannies as each many planes for potential growth (like cells put away into slutty little dishes). The carpets are here sewn with ingrown legs and they are thorny soft like you wouldn’t believe. And, anyways, they’ve been stained with any new fluids of all kinds, developed and pumped around like water for those who drink it. The Pussy Gazette operates a slick, sickening suck void long for their way to get off here. For letting go, gender-antagonistic restrooms inspect genitals for their own inconclusive pleasure. No sooner are you in the room than a craned camera clamps down on whatever you’ve got on offer, like a kiss through a rubberized camera, like a kiss you’d give the world, like a sexuated goose chase for the fuck of it. And sometimes some articles do still flow through here from the press to paper-flavored condoms that you can read while you fuck, the story revealed and disappearing per gyration per attempt to tantalize the reader.

Leonora Dora Donovan is a decadent transsexual. You can find her work in emails to her friends.

SOPHIE APPEL

ALWAYS THE DEVIL

waves’ll throw me back against 
grating black rocks 
in the ocean
when it’s out of your hands he said it not me 
Anything but dreamless I think what the fuck?
Bones on bones are a result from the wearing down of cartilage 
I watch rhythm become padding,
Everyone else gets to be visible 
climbing a vine recounting unmanageable or otherwise 
scenes cascading God grant me the serenity 
Hold on dear brother, it’ll change everything
I myself am down bathed in a pit of blue water  
where my stomach fell 
Departure is out of the question and there’s no gauntlet my hands are  
Fisting the honey jar shoveling handfuls into our mouths midday or at night 
Focus varies greatly when sending out line and pulling back nothing 
Crooked and deploying stories to every one like crazy 
The year of values is upon me shortly or else 
Hiding is a punishment meant for nobody 

RESTORATION

I can’t get enough

controlling my beloved whenever

I’m obsessed with unforgivable men

On the year of war we turn

from the steel mill and drive to the beach

I make plans and god accepts

An ache pulls toward beginning each time

we’re drinking from shells or cups

Possessed by the hard part, being living

Convinced of my diligence, I tell you

lazy is spelled like gambling

We make a grotto filled with soup and the moon

our ragu behind us now

To leave it in the room and not bring it home

I needed to be here tonight

Calling an open line to ask for council,

overindulge is spilled like weather

Sophie Appel is a poet, curator, and historical map archivist based in Los Angeles. Her work has been published through SPECTRA, Dunce Codex, Car Crash Collective/ Metalabel, Bruiser Mag, & more. Her debut collection of poetry, The World’s Largest Cherry Pie was published by Dream Boy Book Club. She tends to Melrose Botanical Garden in its various forms and iterations and is the host of Spit in the Ocean on Lower Grand Radio.

NORA ROSE TOMAS

MY SOCIAL AND EMOTIONAL BLIND SPOTS ALSO SERVE AS A BIKINI COVER UP

I am beautiful in the way all girls are beautiful
in that there is something insane about it
I get ready in the morning and I put on
my good body
I earned it
I was born and dedicated
to the cause of
my deconstruction
my parted
existence
pleases
endlessly
how angry
can you be
at a lawless
hand
a
freed mouth
women
are
easiest
to love
in
pieces

Nora Rose Tomas is a queer writer living in Brooklyn, and she has an MFA in nonfiction writing. Her work has been longlisted for the Graywolf Nonfiction Prize and nominated for Best of Net and Best Small Fictions. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in the Iowa Review, Epiphany, Taco Bell Quarterly, Post 45, Brooklyn Poets, and The Colorado Review, among others. You can find her at norarosetomas.com or on Instagram @dr_sappho.

NOAH TRUONG

Persistent Desire

1. The first time we met, I barely carved out a path to you. Too many greedy butches besieged the way. I competed against a soft blonde, each of us trying to cover the other’s voice to ask you out. i’m going there. i’ll be there at 9. will you come ? where r u headed to ? can I get your number ? will you take mine ? It felt like falling back in a teenage boyish girl body, pulling a face on the bench of a track field blurred by the voracious stomping of a group of boys in sneakers and track shorts. Their temples drenching their wild eyes like those of domesticated horses. Lust. Envy. Hate. Lust. Envy. Hate. Each one of them debating which of these three corridors of madness can best carry them to the finish line. (but the butch seemed nice as far as I can remember, evthg cool).
   

2. I never meant to be on the race. I skipped as far as the information session. You were fresh blood, a dancer, American, assertive. A mesmerizing lesbian. I’d rather just go home and watch Daria for the 12th time.
   

3. Daria likes to lose. She dismisses winning before the race even occurs. She shrugs it away and finds herself a team of like-minded weirdos who will sign up for chess.
   

4. I am Daria. A thorough, content loser. I do not race for the shiniest cup or the highest rank of the team. I lose with the inner grace of the surrendered. My retreat feels like chivalry. There is discreet greatness in caring for the smaller feats.
   

5. You flew back.
   
   I did not think of you then, except as: « far away ».
   

6. You came back in the last days of June. Exactly 57 weeks later. I didn’t count: Google Photos says so. It was Paris “Pride des banlieues”. I extended you an invitation to partake in the party. Queer hospitality. I thought so little of me at the time I was surprised to see you cross a lawn to meet us. Do you know of the days when the tiniest kindness robs you of your composure? I hid in any friend’s lap. Sunbeams scared me away.
   

7. We hadn’t had a chance to talk before. Then we did. You grew up with English and bits of Tagalog. You liked poetry. I told you my dad was born in Manilla. You wanted to know about the lesbian authors I liked, and when I listed them, I kind of remembered my voice used to be firm.
   

8. Note: when having faced violence, one is always keen to enumerate all that one has learned “from” it. It goes like: look, had I not suffered this, perhaps I would not have understood [replace with whatever bullshit]. I do not share this opinion. I was scared. I wish I could have had a chat with you without peeking behind my back.
   

9. I said: “we will not have sex”. Later: we had sex. You asked me why I changed my mind. I said I could only mean “yes” after having said “no”.
   

10. I enjoyed it. You flew back. I did not think of you then, except as: “at a distance”.
    

11. June. 57 weeks later. I didn’t need counting. By then, I could call it a pattern. One of the hardest years of my life had passed. I somehow felt better than ever.
    

12. This is not contradictory. When you face violence in an intimate context, leaving is liberation. No matter the cost, the ordeal, the side damages: you can only win and get better. I got better. I was hurt. I was betrayed.
    

13. Just a little before you came were the nights that heard me say out loud to the grey wave unwrapping under the handle of my bike: “smile because it’s over”.
    

14. We both altered our plans to meet. It was a matter of three text messages, 7 words each top.
    

15. I usually resent people who aren’t texters. I get angry at them at a distance but I submit to it. I do worse out of shame. All the feelings I have, my thoughts, my bad jokes. I shave them off.
    

16. See 4.
    

17. We fucked (for details, see 19).
    

18. You were sweet.
    

19. I topped (like I do). I kept asking if you were okay. Afterwards, we spoke about the Joan Nestle’s butch femme anthology Persistent Desire. You said (your whole light brown nudity still exposed at arm’s reach): “use me, as I want to be used.” You aimed to brush shame out of me like trimmed hair on the shoulders of a young butch. Or a weary trans man.
    

20. Your moaning disheveled me. You trembled when you came.
    

21. See 1.
    

22. I met up again with you the next day with the phlegm of a hard-discount buy. Just happy to be here. No hard feelings if you go for the first-range brands or call it quit. A counterfeit bag with attitude. I got surprised every time you reached to touch me.
    

23. We fucked again.
    

24. You didn’t text. So I didn’t.
    

25. See 4.
    

26. You were leaving the next day.
    

27. See 3. See 24. See 15.
    

28. I cancelled the plan to meet you.
    

29. See 2. 9. See 13.
    

30. You cried.
    

31. I’m sorry. I was scared. For a moment, I forgot within each of us queers, there is a child that once walked up to the classroom stage and raised their finger to claim: I am worthy of love. I forgot we have all been a solo demonstrator in a packed, endless corridor of enemies.
    

32. I see you now. You tucked your tenderness beneath the razor-sharp line of your undercut. You sharpened a round yearning. Your sturdiness is a desire to be held.
    

33. See 10.
    

34. Come back next year. I’ll call you spring. I’ll call you summer.
    

---------------

Noah Truong was born and lives in Paris. He is the author of two poetry collections: Manual pour changer de corps (Cambourakis, Paris, 2024) and Et Pourtant (Paulette Editrice, Lausanne, 2025). His works have been translated into English, Portuguese, Vietnamese, and Czech.

STELLA ANN-HARRIS

A weaning

Conversion pilled by lexapro
Apparently I am not even
A lesbian anymore.
Fantasies of furred
Arms, syled restraint
Call like a netted fig.
Wise Eliza says regression:
Formative sexual agreements
Stakeless entering
Wake up in an armpit
Feel like a king. 

Pussy as whatever
Pussy as comfort object
Holding myself sweetly
Under the covers before bed.
Eyes closed
I’m princess Jasmine
Hands tied sand pours
Suddenly I am kidnapped
By a pair of giant tits
Who take me between them
To the woods
Gingham curtain white bows
All the while I am sucking.
Afterwards pray:
No more hunger
On earth, health
Of the home,
Big naturals,
A good heart.

Sprawl my guts
Then gird them
Like a suburban lawn:
I am a family woman too.
Mom asks what I am
Thinking about.
She’s got a screw
In her foot
And a screw in her knee.
Imagining myself replying
Oh being filled
And thrown away.

Long nights we feed the baby
Potato chips.
I fancy myself more elegant,
Like a fruit
But then again
I am screwless.

Stella-Ann Harris is a writer living in Brooklyn. Her work can be found in Air/Light, The Portland Review, and elsewhere.

JANNAT ALAM

failure girl monitoring override

guess what, i know
maiden dissection obstetric age
hang on, it seems like a waste
to smile so naturally
models solve colonies
exhaustion becomes a lullaby
who on earth created this kind of superclass
half-life functional override
i disperse once more
pulled from a claw-machine
is that enough? shut the hell up
i didn’t read the error script
there’s no way of knowing what’s behind
the words that’s been said, is there?

Jannat Alam is based in San Bernardino County. She edits Reap Thrill. 

EVIE RECKENDREES

taste like warm milk

wet cement drops
from scaffolding
uncertainty, into certainty made
by our hands dunking into it

laughing at dogs
make offerings to the river
speaking to the river
only living by the river —

by the river and
you say you have
never seen me
happier than this

down
f

wow - this merging is so difficult,
yet,

growing out of my fingers is touch
growing out of my thoughts is God

when does food turn into bait?
is your blood food or bait in this case meaning our case meaning ==

(thoughts i had)

we’re seen by each other, smelled by each other
through our pants (sometimes), fabrics
touched each other,

i love to speak in absolutes but no one can stand them

this state (of mind) loves a prefix

give me a word
give me two, actually

you say we can do magic
as a couple
one plus one equals three

on video call, i say something about being desire-driven,
you laugh,
i stood in the library garden, thought
i’m lucky enough to have
(you)

day in bed, not doing what i know i have

to
do a little too much

yet, river carries time
you get up with me, bring me water,
to make

trains to paris, flights to lisbon,
same sea that looks different

another one

i let you have a sip,
make an offering again to the river,
make an offering again to God,

again,
be impassable, this time //

after i wish i could fuck you
in a form that is not dictated by nature
or sexuality

let our bodies become untrue

with salt and oil
with baths and
hunger gives space
gives space to the real
to derangement
sense that somewhere in there

surpass capture
kneel down again
before that record player turned altar and

speak your spells,

making more life with you

i say i couldn’t open up much more than this

i want to carve those words into my body,
birch tree in garden / birch tree in heart -/- knife /-/

and we have nowhere else to start



Evie Reckendrees is a poet, writer & performance artist. She is writing about, and engaging with, desire, suffering, and God. She lives between Germany and the Atlantic shoreline(s).

IDA BAKHTIARY-RAHIMI

brown jouissance

i cud watch the presidential debate / or i cud get laid / see i can be soft and sharp like a / seared tongue on the edge of ur teeth / like u i keel at the sight of cute things / peer out from the casket of my desires / this wanting has to go somewhere / and i cud never hold it in my mouth long enough / see i came of age with a nostalgia so primal / i yearned for a place that no longer existed / like u i thought i wanted to die / walked in the middle of the street at night / this wanting has to go somewhere / and i cud never hold it in my mouth / long enough / see we were never asked for what we wanted / tucked it between oblivion and tomorrow / like u i wake up in this violent country / this wanting has somewhere to go / and i cud go on but ill / stop

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH

I had a godless childhood
still do
To hear that even the stars
are dead was enough
to prove how lonely it feels:
you, a random point pulsing
through the timeline of infinite
grief, all of us scattered
They say that we’re all made
of stardust But leave out
the explosions
the matter that was destroyed
under these laws of physics
And still no clue how to make a
life

I DONT WANT UR MONEY
lets just care for each other
said no doctor
lawyer
politician
consultant
president
monarch
dictator
colonizer
cop
ever

When i told my friends i wanted
to be an artist
they said
why dont you want to get
married?

and i said
my parents had to escape death to
find each other and even that was
not enough of a reason to call this
living

and they said
lollll but you would have such
cute little brown bab–
and ive been running through
space-time ever since

Ida Bakhtiary-Rahimi is a queer, Iranian American writer and artist. Ida’s work was selected for the 2024-2025 Boston Mayor’s Poetry Program and is the recipient of fellowships from VONA and the Somerville Arts Council. Ida works and studies in the English Dept. at Tufts University.

NATHAN MUKA

The hardest part is finding someone to play with

finally, charming comments
draw forward a set of unfamiliar teeth
a code cracks and a strategy emerges:
I’ll make me happy with your happy

it’s not long before a proven tactic stales
and takes reminding that theres a reward
in what happens next

a new thing is really the same thing,
though theres amphetamines
in the cornucopia of fresh tries
playing wide instead of tall
you become vulnerable
to a diversity of forces

I’m never any good at long games
but I don’t mind losing
if it’s interesting

Nathan Muka lives in Brooklyn, New York with a small, dog-like entity named Lily. He likes short walks with a distinct endpoint and really sour lemonade.

SAFI ALSEBAI

This fear feels anachronistic

“NO WORD FROM YOU FEELING LONESOME
KINDLY CABLE WHETHER ANYTHING NEW AUF
WIEDERSEHEN MAX”
—Max Horkheimer to Theodor Adorno
15 March 1960

All that is description

A genealogy of jilted subject-object relations goes
something like:
the sublime, the alienated, the uncanny

Relations of: property, domestication

The one who all they did was palm
escapes years later into a horizon of puniness
leaves no address no account no number I have
to find those too find like meaning like puns

Is the curriculum of
laugher canned, uncanny, or cannibal?

V-effect

Ferric or ferrous juice of life on tap from a samovar
Irony

Prague spring saltwater

The sublime, the alienated, the uncanny, the ambiguous
the grotesque

Property, domestication, failure, mystery

Give me a break:
remain in touch, which
sounds after all
like a threat from some modernist

The flute, the bat, how ungallant

The sublime, the alienated, the uncanny, the ambiguous,
the grotesque, the abject, the ambivalent, the pathetic

Property, domestication, failure, mystery,
collapse, optimism, inimitability?

What to do with modernism at the end of the world?

The only gift is that
my throat is sore anyway

Otherwise I would be gelastic
It’s what we’ve been taught to be

Safi Alsebai is a writer from Arkansas, where he also studies medicine. 

JAMES MILANESI

my thumb in my makeshift gloryhole

all this silver in my mouth, we lay
talking of how we became our own parents
left to tame wild accusations
of parasitic tendencies in my sweat soaked bed
my heart orbits the front door
trying to get back to you
thumb in my makeshift glory hole
till then.

here’s a concave mold where skin stains the earth
poor little God! wrapped guilty in a stitched blanket of past lovers
there was a shooting in the park—someone recorded it
blood like grease coated over a frying sidewalk
i ask why more of late,

why being early feels pretentious and sad?
here’s the poisoned peace; here we can rot in harmony
poor little Me! my friends searching for their shadow
earmuffed and bandaged; big eyed smiling
you say something when I ask why you’re leaving
my mind permeates the room
trying to find you

James Milanesi is a Philadelphian poet who is retroactively late for work. He is the curator and founder of Poet’s Row. His latest chapbook, Momentary Sweetheart, is published with Bottlecap Press.

TAYLOR STRICKLAND

‘ ’

How monitor turns to loch
takes imagination, likewise the
not-for-profit profitable data lake:
columns, streaks-in-the-making,
their fathoms only healthcare
could dream, or dream up.
Langmuir circulation,
the wind-script. Huge bluelit
depths through which souls slide
like slender naiad, aibhneag.
We value, translate soul.
Analogy veils what it reveals,
even nothing. Say nothing holds
or is held by a single empty string.
Quoted blank. Two apostrophes
that can quote blank. See what
the analyst’s longing seeks,
then leaves? A wee placeholder
whose length is less than less than.
Neither/nor. The shortest gospel.
Zero thing, an empty string
zeroing in on nothingness.
I would expect nothing less.

Taylor Strickland is the author of Dastram/Delirium, 2023 Scottish Poetry Book of the Year, and a Poetry Book Society Translation Choice. Dwell Time, his next collection, will be released in November 2025. His work has featured in Poetry London, Poetry Northwest, New Statesman, The TLS, and elsewhere. He lives in Glasgow.

STUART RAWLINSON

Is it Hot? Does it Look Good? Are You Proud to Serve it?

Is it a list of definitions
procured from a weathered,
second hand dictionary of art terms?
Does it involve chiaroscuro?
Are you crying right now?

Is it softly running a finger
over your lips? Does it kiss
behind your ear?
Are you often found
thinking about the curve of its spine?

Is it varnished?
Does it compel everyone who encounters it
to stop, to stop in their tracks,
and completely re-evaluate their life?
Are you thinking about giving up?

Is it moving?
Does it move you?
Are you making it move?

Is its theme or content
inherently problematic?
Does it look representative enough
for an imagined,
algorithm-derived audience?
Are you sufficient?

Is it hot?
Does it look good?
Are you ready for a stranger
to push their finger
inside its steaming centre?

Stuart Rawlinson (he/him) is a writer living in Glasgow, Scotland. Poems of his can be found in Magma, fourteen poems, Silly Goose Press, and Seaford Review, among other places. In 2022 he was selected as one of four mentees for the Clydebuilt 15 program, designed by St Mungo's Mirrorball.

DANIELLE CLOUGH

antisuppressant

we are readymade reticence
eating the same meal for eternity

eyes melting mirrors into spirulina
a wellness juice, outworn

i’m good at risking nothing
unmarred by wrenched thinspo

a lie for a pebble is still a lie,
the diagnosis: proximity.

you witness me tantrum like a toddler
we’re harsh in the wrong ways

i remind myself to love is to let go
a bee sting creation, an astigmatic bird

i learned to sew to carry more
my mom willed me not the bag

but pious heartburn, a rubber band
memory, a bass line ritual. we

whittle sea salt into clarinets—
the ocean between us

is an uncracked back, a gong
turned harp, an unhummed tune,

i’m learning to wade is
just to stand

Danielle Clough is a poet from Los Angeles. She works at the Los Angeles Review of Books.

SIMON JOHANNIN / TRANSLATED BY: MAUD BOUGEROL

(15)

Les grands moments sont rares
Dans les ruelles confuses
Mais certains
Sur le rebord du risque
Chuchotent aux crans qui s'ouvrent
Le long de la cambrure
Great moments are rare

In the chaotic alleyways
But some
At the edge of risk
Whisper to the notches opened
Along the arch of their back

(67)

L'agencement d'un tout
Autonome
Et sorti de
Nulle part
Il est là le divin
Au fond du geste

Things falling into place
On their own
Out of
Nowhere
Here comes the divine
At the heart of the gesture

Simon Johannin is from Marseille, France. He is the author of four novels and three poetry collections. 

Maud Bougerol is a translator, teacher and researcher from Paris. She lives and works in Marseille. 

VICTORIA BROOKS

unicorn

I’m a writer and I’m crushing on
a woman and a man
I’m a ______
Obsessed with their bestselling books
hooks, Love
Clues on the Gram like
The peak of another hand across a dinner table
Gender of partner unclear
Relationship status a moon
Let me be your unicorn
This awkward fuck fancies you

In the stowaway bar
I sidle up to one and watch the other
Boy I like you
He can’t hear me, I’m the monster
Girl I like you
She can’t hear me, I’m the mother and the

translucent floating boundary

Where the party’s at
No one speaks my language
No matter what I write, Mummy nor Daddy love me
I got both issues, like wings

Embryo

I’m a mother
Of four cell clusters
One became twins

The others were miscarriages
here are their names:
wife,
mistress
woman
(I have black and white photos)

My living children a blastocyst-split
Named bi and NB
or something
I wish I could tend to them lickety-split
Creating a womb

Instead
Inside, I’m rocking the babies
Cooking pie for my husband, not cruising
Wondering if there’s enough time
To touch their face and
Travel the desire lines

Vic/toria Brooks is a queer nonbinary writer living in London, and parent to an octopod (2-year-old identical twins). Their first queer literary sci-fi novel, Silicone God, was published by MOIST Books in the UK (December 2023) and House of Vlad Press in the US (February 2025). They have also published various essays, short fiction and prose poetry, always rooted in imaginings of trans-dimensional and futuristic sexuality. 

SASCHA COHEN

death drive pleasure principle

I have released my carnival prize fish into the ocean.
My super-ego skipped death and we skinny-dipped
into some groovy scenes: the claw machine
and the colosseum. The motel and the madhouse.

We took quaaludes at the bathhouse. I do
whatever the hell I want: Feed the wildlife.
Stare at the sun and tap on the glass. You can pry
this God molecule from my cold, dead brain.

Sometimes a corpse is just your mother.
The universe folds us all back together
after death, and every day I start over
on this same beach, counting the grains
of sand. One must imagine my goldfish happy.

Sascha Cohen is a writer from Los Angeles. Her poems have been nominated for the Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.

MICHAEL JULIANI

Posing Nude

After the breakup, we both admit
we still crave

this kind of afternoon: no curtains,
dirty auburn light,

and her locked wrist
shading my angles

while the sun’s last rays
bend over me.

Michael Juliani is a poet, editor, and writer from Pasadena, California. His poems have appeared in outlets such as the Bennington Review, Washington Square Review, Sixth Finch, Epiphany, Bear Review, SARKA, and NECK. He lives in Los Angeles.

MAD SUNDQUIST

Club Kid

in the club i feel rage
a kid-girl sitting against a wall waiting to leave.
this is towards nothing and no one but anticipation.

anticipation like thirteen,
kicking rocks at the strip mall
waiting for some place or thing to be meant for you.

entitled but honest,
it takes no accountability;
a feeling as helpless
as soles on scuffed concrete.

in the club i feel guilt
a child unraveling
anger from grown-out hair,
revealing i am not doing what i came here to do,
which was to kiss lips and kill the unwanted parts of myself,
to glow against the cheekbones of my peers.

tonight i am caught in the wind
i am impossible, i am a weapon on the dance floor,
sharp-rubbing shoulders i hardly know, a risk
an open wound
a vibrant contagion of noise and senseless irritation.

no gloss nor grace,
im burning louder than the sounds meant to be heard,
the real ones beating over my head,
built and spun to transfigure those in their path,
to consume us with pure presence and light-dappled hands.

my teeth appear in flashes in the black box, illuminated fang-white
shamed frustration smile
misplaced contempt
i wonder where my arms ought to go next

fly outside, tie self to picnic bench
sit on claws
keep eyes down like knifepoint.

it is ugly to be seen like this:
scratched naked by sidewalk road rage
reeking of summer hubris,
a little desperate craving
for endless conversation,
no vessel for the words.

i reject the club
deny its release,
too much alive to contain in one room
too self-aware for strange communion;

no, tonight i alone must
kick the rocks
crank the song
skip the beat over the curb
swim the gutter fountain
cook the street greens from concrete
and pray a little.

crossing diagonals on red
i zig-zag myself home
the indoor fog transformed to moth-speckled streetlight

i remember slowly:
shame is like the blue stained glass on your windows;
fooling me in the early morning
but then so easily peeled off the pane.

Mad is a writer, archivist, and musician living in Berlin by way of Brooklyn.