I asked if anyone wanted to see my poetry and one person said yes so this is that ig. I haven't been writing for very long so don't judge me to harshly plz :-;

(MY BED IS COLD AND I HAVE NEVER BEEN VERY GOOD WITH MY WORDS)

And I feel as if I've pulled 

the smoke over from 2019 

with none of the heat. 

How I sat on crumbed 

carpet under television light 

watching the beaches 

collect their people.

I remember how the fear 

infused with the grown ups 

voices. how the fires 

weren't near us. how the 

fires crossed state borders. 

And the smoke isn't really 

smoke but here it is drifting 

around me and clogging my 

lungs the same way. On 

foggy school mornings 

when the windows would 

awaken in a cold-sweat our 

slowed tugging towards 

the door was excused. 

The way my lungs, heart, 

throat clogged was allowed.

(The "big words" I hoarded 

in the space between my 

canines and gums would 

often unhitch and be left 

at the bottom of my 

undeformed larynx blocking 

the exit of voice from my 

mouth - hence the clogging) 

And I am herding this fog 

and I am shepherd 

and tired. Some time between 

the years of deliverance and 

dry-rot lingering I decided I would 

age alone because I could 

not share rent with a man. 

The night I realized I was 

gay I dug my knees into 

the ground and pled to 

an entity I did not believe  in, entered the next

morning with only 

carpet burn and tear scars 

as divine response.

And I imagine this fog 

I have harbored is low 

to the ground and it is 

whispering a freezer burn 

into the depths of my 

wrists like I am raw meat. 

Like the night I went to 

the Aradale lunatic asylum 

and the tour guide told 

the group spirits in the 

ward liked to claw at 

guests feet so I 

make-believed ghosts 

tearing at my ankles, 

self-diagnosed swelling 

when I tried to sleep.

And what I mean to write 

is that my bed is half-empty, 

and cold, and the road 

beside the window with 

it's rusted 2009 utes and 

it's pothole-interrupted 

faded white lines is 

tucked tightly under 

blanketed fog

and I miss you.