glances whispers rumors spark feelings without names igniting icy rage tinted jealous jarred thoughts unglued scattered lacking sentence structure because my mind has no lines no boundaries no control when wandering wanders too far i can’t retrieve the wanderers from the wilderness so i weep for the nameless soldiers of the war within the battles beneath breasts behind smiles masking chaos at its snowcapped peak cracking sliding an avalanche of aimless agony burying the excess emotions undesirable and ugly for no eyes but His and even those glint suspicious with partiality unspoken prejudice unrevealed instead put away privately but sensed and unraveled at the battlegrounds now a graveyard littered with death but bursting with new life choking out the mundane existence until the mundane departs and superficial standards still stand they still stand they still stand i can’t stand it any longer

i.

sweet potato pie

topped with marshmallows: a dish,

a euphemism

ii.

yellow fold-up chairs

aren't for seventeen-year-old

girls, not anymore

supposedly to

grow up is to nod while the

adults are talking

cross my ankles, chew,

swallow, scribble haikus that

they will never read

iii.

an appetizer

of political jargon

no 'soup or salad'

iv.

with apple cider

i wash down all the words i

know i shouldn't say

just to cram them in

boxes of five-seven-five

for a smile or two

from poets like me

dreamers, forever craving

something real; what's real?

i’d like to be invisible

to fill a spot at the dining room table

to listen to stories and laugh when they laugh

but without the prying,

the awkward second-cousin game of catch-up

to be the shadow in the corner

just to be close to my people,

to revel in the security of togetherness

without the humiliation of

having to make myself known

to take another sip of milk tea,

another spoonful of apple jacks

without even a thought

about the body society once told me

i needed to be considered beautiful

to kiss you out of the blue

eliminate the possibility of “no”

but possibly eliminating the possibility of love

at the same time

Not long ago I made a matcha cake. I curved the buttercream and arranged strawberries on the top and through the middle. I'd made sourdough and banana breads before then and this week I am making carrot cake and pimms cupcakes, for some friends.

I think I like baking because it absorbs and satisfies those parts of us that like things to be pretty, the parts of us that love to love and love to give.

I'd like to love my mother in this way. I like making her her favourite things—a clean kitchen and a platter full of scones or cakes. She loves breads, too, especially when she can smear them with her very own quince and strawberry jams.

I want to send her mince pies, victoria sponges and anything that will make her smile.

My dog has just died. She held him til the end, and maybe I inherited parts of her tender heart because I've cried three times since it happened, which was yesterday. Even though I know he was an old and happy dog.

I wish I could hug my dog. Dogs are definitely the best beings to do hobbies with. I like long walks and quick runs. I like cycling to my favourite hot chocolate place and getting dark hot chocolate. I like seeing artsy films at the cinema and eating fried chicken afterwards. I like trying the seitan and deciding that I don't like it, and my friend letting me finish his fried chicken instead. I like slow Saturday mornings, spent in the sunshine or shopping for Chinese foods.

I like dancing in kitchens. I like it when my younger brother self-consciously joins in and then relaxes. I love his joy when we're dancing together.

I like dancing in bars, too. I like drinking martinis. I like giggling and one of my friends forcing me onto water, so that I have the best night possible. I love my friends, and spending time with them.

I like being alone, too. I like the quiet. I like soy milk cappucinos and full fat frappucinos.

I like packing picnics. Organising them. Acing it. I like long walks that mean you deserve the picnic, and a stop in the pub afterwards.

And, in case you hadn't realised. I really like writing about myself.