the soap rests in the ceramic dish.
it is a pale green sliver, worn to a shallow curve.
a single dark hair is sealed into its surface.

i lift it.
the curve was carved by your palm.

i bring the bar to my face and breathe.
the scent is cheap lavender and your skin's salt.
my thumb presses into the hollow you made.
the soap gives way like cold flesh.

this is the body i am given.
i hold it every night.
my own heat melts it into nothing.

your hand on my spine felt like a row of teeth.

burnt sugar and wet copper clung to your collar.

a peach slice tasted of salt and something medicinal on your tongue.

the tiny scar above your lip seemed to twitch, to breathe on its own.

in the car window, your face was layered over mine, the mouth on both of us slightly open.

you whispered 'it will swallow the stones' while tracing the veins inside my wrist.

your copy of that book smelled of damp soil and fever.

the weight of your sleeping head on my chest left a divot that aches with cold.

your knee clicking like a key turning in a lock.

my skin keeps the imprint of your thumb, a faint pressure that feels like a bruise from the inside.

the way his voice hitched on my name, a caught nerve twitching.
that fragile disruption, a flaw in the smooth surface of him.
then the chasm opened.
a mirroring infection pulsed, a need that gnawed both our marrow.
the air thickened, tasting of rust and overripe fruit, a sacrament of decay.
my blood sang a terrible, familiar scripture.
each beat a surrender to the exquisite rot we cultivated.
the world contracted to that stutter, that tiny break in his composure.
a silent, tearing worship.

these words crawl from the cracks in my ribs, smelling like old rain and rust.
each letter a shard, pieced together with spit and a bad word.
this heart, a busted tv flickering static and something feral.
we're all beautiful disasters, trying to bloom in a goddamn landfill.
that first cackle when the sky falls, yeah. that's the juice.
art is the ugly sob that cracks the pavement.
it's got blood on its teeth and mud on its boots.
here's a fragment, a chipped tooth from the smile of the broken.
plant it in the ash. watch what the hell grows.

the code breathes cold on the back of our necks.
we dig in the dirt with bare hands.
our stories are etched in bone, in the lines around our eyes.
each word is a splinter pulled from the flesh.
this making is a shaking thing, born of sleepless nights and the taste of salt.
it has a heartbeat.
it remembers what it cost.
our craft bleeds. it was always alive.
we offer these broken pieces, hoping they find another hand in the dimness.

each word here cost something. a piece of me, scraped out and laid bare.

my book, 'honey girl,' the thoughts on my substack, they come from that raw place inside.

that one childhood photo, the only one i have, is the anchor. every word is tied to her, to what survived.

this is an attempt to make sense of the ache, to bridge the silence.

if you need words that still carry the weight of a life, maybe these will speak to you.