New Note

untitled words on a page floating, materialising from broken fragments of my imagination

i want to say so much, but also so little; the screen before me is a canvas for a moment, i am its picasso

and i’ll padlock my words behind a glass wall because what is fury, if not to be spread, to be shared?

i’ll watch my shedding tear tear up the emptiness and form cacophonies, the black metal that only death can bring

and maybe once in a while - i’ll open it up to the world, cherrypick me at my lowest and broadcast it, like it’s a sign

if i’m sad, you should be too.

in case you don’t live forever.

journey with me and just maybe i’ll open your eyes and soon you’ll see we could be one and the same chasing fortune, yearning fame

and we can look upon the shore on which they stood, our fathers fore imagine a world where we vow to change the one we live in now

for you I’d dance in a storm free from myself, free of form i’d sail a thousand oceans, love maybe a million, so I could prove

in case you don’t live forever know that I’ll be here whenever fondling you ever so tight till your last day, till dawn’s early light

in case you don’t live forever you’re in my every endeavour danger, wars, whatever may come i’ll beat the face of the lonesome drum

in case you don’t live forever i only pray you remember my hand in yours, in the darkest night persevering with you through every fight

-- from the perspective of a girl with debilitating cancer, to her best and only friend, a soft toy bear.

Paper Planes

I paint the sky in Vibrant pastel hues, of Pinks and purples and yellows and blues They descend in spirals, landing on the cobblestone floor just lying there, nothing more Until I unfold them and they tell me whispers, Like leaves rustling in the wind, carrying tales from beyond, about to begin Propelling into the sky and forming beautiful rainbows, trajectories shooting up into the sky and down How could something so delicate be so beautiful? Even as the paper crumples, Yellowing at the edges, tearing from being folded over and over and  over and o v e r My hands move, dancing daintily across crease after crease of mountains, valleys bringing me into a world beyond my imagination Suddenly I’m the first in flight Suddenly I’ve got my wings Suddenly I’m leading a crew of thirty Across the Atlantic, over distant, tiny things Suddenly I’m the first all-female captain Suddenly the world’s in my eye Suddenly there’s nothing in between Me and the sky

Landing in the crisp, green grass Dotted by flowers and fresh spring dew I wonder - how can something so delicate Be so beautiful?

columbarium for past autumns, by khaty xiong

   For a time the home was lost to me my mouth forged in the night as I dreamed away the barriers—stars lengthening the line of my gaze               beryl bones rushed to storm— To my eternal right clouds in immediate rotation mother mutating past clay and desire               too light to form                   too dead to surrender     like meat made tender by memory—                                                effortless my head at the helm towards pardon               my hands passing through water     her eye on the wretched edge seeding air with every intention of life— such mischief even from the wilds of death from the alcoves full of metal and shadowy glass—    dust heavy on my crown—    What I pretend to gather here still dies past the trees—absent from birth—the promise to lie by dusk—to set ablaze the home—               veritable fire coming west     for the lonely shores— In the periphery I’ve not returned before— have stayed lost just to retain the impossibility     of ends—a march to bury what remains— and no I don’t fall in—I just lean weakly               into the weeds

they, by raquel salas rivera

what do we eat when a name dies? yesterday your mother stopped by, but she didn't recognize me as your friend's friend, the previous one. what is that about, having a dead friend in the wallet with a picture of a kidnapped kid? have you seen my son? he is short and collects photos of swings. my short hair isn't professional; your long hair doesn't prepare you. between the two of us, we figure out how to fake we are marionettes, not people. it's difficult to count the days since the last time we went out. what is that about, going out and not having to explain you aren't that her or that thing? in this, our language,1 there exists no plural that doesn't deny me. 1 our language is spanish. ours, but never quite mine.

hello! welcome to my p^4 site :”)

mostly for short prose and poetry, because i really don’t have the space or brain to write long-form prose.