First art share

I’m feeling bold today (further emboldened by the fact that I haven’t actually shared this blog link with anybody yet, so I’m basically writing to a void…), so I’m putting up the most recent semi-complete thing I’ve written. It’s my first poem — I was inspired to try writing something in this style after reading A Bestiary by Lily Hoang. It’s a bit dark, like most of my writing. Hope I’m not alarming anyone. This one’s about finding my own space.


Clean Paper

I’m not a person, I am a vase

A medium-sized vase.

You write something on your notepad with fierce bold lines, pushing your pen down hard with rage and passion

I am the page two pages down

Blank white but embossed with the imprint of you

Why write.

The bumps from your words cause me friction, each up-down of my pen reminding me “not your own not your own not your own…”

You’re a mountain range, visible from outer space. I’m the fuzzy little grass growing on top, making you soft.

I could be covered by snow in an hour, the deer could stamp me down or eat me, at my best and most glorious I’m the stairway to heaven for a lightweight insect, shepherding it three inches closer to the sun.

Maybe someone will take a picture of me and put me in a nature magazine.

You can’t see the cavities you leave on that notepad, how the sweat on your hands curls the paper, makes my ink bleed

My deepest wish is a new 500 sheet ream under the Christmas tree, complete with protective wrapping, or blank pages folded up inside my mailbox from an anonymous donor, or a grocery store receipt machine out of ink before the clerk notices it and I come home with a long, empty little scroll…

I dream white paper, white walls, sand washed smooth by the waves, tree trunks with nobody loving anybody etched on the bark.

Take your pen somewhere else, or write in invisible ink like me




I fear that moment. When I’ve run far enough away with my treasure — 

Hidden in a cave where no one can find me

Pages so sharp and clean they’re practically a weapon

Pens on pens on backup pens: everything is ready

Me regarding the paper, bringing my right hand up close in the perfect three-point-grip they taught me in kindergarten

One millimeter away, I halt, the earth’s ice crawls up my legs, freezing them, the cold traveling upward —

It is there that I fall and I die

Time has snatched me because I had nothing to say

My epitaph will say Thanks for Being a Great Friend.

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