i fall into the opening between subject and object and call it a condition of possibility. when i speak only the ceiling listens. sometimes it moans. if i have a name let it be the sound his lips make. there is no word in my language for this. sometimes my kookum begins to cry and a world falls out. grieve is the name i give to myself. i carve it into the bed frame. i am make-believe. this is an archive.  it hurts to be a story. i am the boundary between reality and fiction. it is a ghost town. you dreamt me out of existence. you are at once a map to nowhere and everywhere. yesterday was an optical illusion. i kiss a stranger and give him a middle name. i call this love. it lasts for exactly twenty minutes. i chase after that feeling. which is to say: i want to almost not exist. almost is the closest i can get to the sky. heaven is a wormhole. i first found it in another man’s armpit. last night i gave birth to a woman and named her becoming. she is four cree girls between the ages of 10 and 14 from northern saskatchewan.  we are a home movie i threw out by accident. all that is left is the signified. people die that way.
Jul 1, 2024

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you know, all i like to write about is love.  writing is easier when it’s about your own personal experiences of grief, of pain but love is the beautiful dove of the two  released at a funeral, released at a wedding. , because the definition is different for everybody. — the trees rustle again tonight, and the wind gently taps on the windowpane, begging again to be let in and my thoughts race farther and faster in the night than a pure-bred, hot-blooded racehorse, bucking wild for the first time my mind buzzes, stricken like a gong, reverberating in the quietness of tonight as i drag myself closer to you, you reach out for me, an unspoken, gentle and devout prayer, asking for me in the unspeakable words conveyed in a whisper through actions – i promised you a fantastical world of your own, where you are safe, through my own creation. i have created for you in the heart of my own somewhere for me to love you,  fully and infinitely with all of myself. if this is not where you are safe, then there is nothing else. –  word by word and sentence by sentence i create dreams i would never tell anybody not even under the skies of a cloudless night. when i sleep, i tuck my hopes and sadness under my pillow and hope a fairy will kidnap it and place in that spot something i should need more. but night after night, my dreams just macerate in the container of my heart. soon, i will drink them like an elixir of truth and what i am afraid of will come
May 2, 2025
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My mind is made of bubbles Synapses pop here and there Take me in different directions Through alleyways and down steep stairs My emotions come and go like the mornings receding tide Shift like piss swift dribbling down drainage pipes and play-place slides My words are drool upon your feet My eyes are hung like frozen coals Or snot that freezes and puddles In jacket arms, on brand new clothes The mirror is a needle but these ropes are all the same I built my house on a rock in sands so that I can be displaced by strange rogue waves Sometimes screaming doesn’t help Today I can’t talk at all Self harm gets only a couple chuckles when friends come round to call My loves tears taste like cinnamon I can’t swallow without spitting up Ones once loved don’t talk to me because my medicine makes me less fun I cry every other night over folks I chose to hang around My room is set on fire every time I say something and don’t like how it sounds Good grief, bang the drum all day
Dec 29, 2024
there is something figuratively beautiful about the things we know and don’t know, the sublime and mundane and when you visit the beach, do you ever think about if the animals who live in the embrace of the depths remember the beauty of the ocean? where the salt envelops every single one of us,  accepting us as kin letting her wind tousle our raw, visceral edges  and pepper them with her sea-foamed kisses  which tell me that it’s okay to pretend and okay to tell the ocean all of myself the ocean reaches out to me, hands cloaked in the sharp coolness of water and something else- something i don’t understand as I poke around in a tide pool, like a vendor at a bustling market, observing the wares that the ocean has to offer and i turn around and ask her, do the barnacles see themselves? do anemones understand their own beauty, fragile and ephemeral?  i don’t think they do.  but the ocean doesn’t have any words for me, instead shutting my mouth with a shhhh  as her sandy dress rustles down the shore, laced with white foam and gossamer trails of ripples and wordlessly, tells me to look  and i do.  until the sun hurriedly retreats from the wispy radiance of the moon, enrobed in puffy clouds and it's just the three of us. the moon tugs at the ocean’s hand, dancing to their own secret rhythm,  letting me see them in their love. personally, i think it’s beautiful \\ and i wish i had something like it and the ocean laughs. nothing jeering or ridiculing, simply an acknowledgement that i understand. everything around me falls,  like petals cast off from a chrysanthemum. and then, we were wordless  like the ocean had never spoken in the first place.  i want to descend into the depths of the ocean one day, to be hugged once more and never again. not because i am tired of being alive, but frankly within me exists too much zeal to live. uncontrollable surges of wow i am alive in flesh, blood through my veins, and thoughts in my head become more addictive than any form of fentanyl, cocaine, heroin  and better than any gateway into a better life  or a better existence, transcending normality and the moment it’s just me in my head, without the viscous energy of being alive suddenly drains me like a leaking bucket, decrepit and dry. i want to burn like a torch, setting my world alight into embers, into flames,  into an inferno.  Sunrise:: being alight || with a halo of only thoughts and dreams || and the divinity of something new
May 2, 2025

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