Remind me that the most fertile lands were built by the fires of volcanoes.
The trauma said, ‘Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.
My mouth is a fire escape. The words coming out don’t care that they are naked. There is something burning in there.
..when a war ends, what does that look like exactly? do the cells in the body stop detonating themselves? does the orphanage stop screaming for its mother? when the sand in the desert has been melted down to glass and our reflection is not something ...
