Suffering

I haven’t known what to write in so long
that I’ve returned
to scratching the verses from my thighs
where you would summon
little moans
that my words did not permit
as you broke every barrier I put up.

But I haven’t known you
in so long that some nights
I sleep with my eyes shut, No longer waiting
for the thunderstorm in yours
to reduce me –

Back to ashes.
Sometimes I wonder
if the suffering was writing first.

Drowning

When the memories flood through her skin
like milk – when you pour it into porridge,
Her world melts.
Berries that know nothing but the rupturing instead with,
A certain sense of shaking and
warmth of the neck
before nothing.
Nothing.