introspection
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To porches, for carrying the heavy late nights and the bountiful early mornings, for the oak to hold our treads, to cradle our sorry existences, to brace us under the lumens. a window isn’t enough.
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I gave up all my childhood relics too early. I refused my dolls, my stuffed animals, my notebooks full of novel ideas, to swallow maturity instead. I was sooner than ready ushered into adulthood, to wear the mark of maturity ripe on my flat chest. Every “you’re so mature” proclaimed from an adult singed it deeper into my flesh. The
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a word on hyper-independence My life has always been one of quiet sovereignty,a party where the only attendees are mirrors.
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I yearn for tomorrow,
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I love women who are hard, who are calloused, whose fingertips are yellowed from cigarettes, who never divulges into their vulnerabilities until they give you little conversational snippets that you don’t dare pry into, who are aggresively maternal regardless of if they have children or not, who are rough and tactile and smart.
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To step into myself is uncharted territory. To feel safe is an unread part of the story.
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a poem inspired by the tweet shown.
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How many times can I write a rhyme? Until my mouth sours like a lime and I crumble under the divine?
Lashanda Forsberg 