writingsforwinter:

my mother is drunk again.

and i am dreaming with my hands

folded over the edge of the bed,

trailing on the floorboard

like waves.

branches from the cherry tree

scraping the window raw

like wounds

which also happen to cover my wrists

bruises mapped out on my thighs:

cigarette burns etched…

i have a real dislike for most poetry, but every now and then you read something and it just blindsides you, knocks you into a wall, stunned that you felt something… and then you reread it over and over. this ones like that for me.

in fact, most of her writing is like that for me.