“You are not your poem”, and other constant evolutions.

saynotoclowns felt the magic of Jillian’s words, take a look yourself

Between the Lines

My new teachers ask me to leap in my writing. Ask that my words allow composting and cultivation.

I am living in my fingers lately.

They type. They drive these new streets. They cook dinners and they pour coffees and they pick wildflowers. They shake and wipe new tears

they stroke his soft dark hair.

Yet there are ponderosa butterscotch pines

this giant unicorn of a fucking bathtub

new poetry books to ingest

and a kitchen to step heavily into

lavender, sage, mint and yarrow around each street corner

what if I lose?

What if I gain?

Both terrify my throat and leave a strange anxiety

lingers like dog shit

has the similar pleasantry in handling

“Accept Loss Forever”.

I am here in New Mexico

My skin is tightening and browning

my feet are happier

My nails continue to grow strong without the interference of my anxious chipped teeth

music…

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