where the writers are
a note from the bottom

  

my mood

has charcoal edges

it scrapes the day black

I can’t stop thinking about what is real

 

Sunless mornings

with scrambled eggs and sin

weigh me down

 

I cry

 

again    and    again

scratching mosquito bites

from yesterday

 

a jackknifed

woman still in bed

 

I know

I will end

like everyone else