where does the river go?
from the archives, 5/18/25
how do i explain the fear of my soul running dry? that i wake up in sweat some nights, clutching onto chipped edges of my once raging rivers. these days, i have less to say, even when i rip at my throat in an attempt to arrange a sentence. all i have left are soft touches when i have the courage to lay beside you. i hope my fingerprints deliver the messages i can’t yet write.
oh she's a poetttttttt