Xanadu
 

I’m made of skin, and your love is a knife; strong, cutting deep, drawing blood. Peeling back layers until it’s inside the most...

Threads begin to split, worn down from sheltering me. My needle pricks the fabric, weaving through its imperfections. The threads run...

Her hand gently pressed against the table, Conveying the distinct forms of ridges, Carving the love she’s held. The silver twines in her...

A deep burgundy blanket  surrounding my torso with warmth. My favorite necklace trapped in the fuzz. Covered in holes and loose threads. ...

The vase holds so much— holds so little. Tears bear the flowers’ place, a space to grow. He ponders in silence the many...

Worn smooth by time, a shard of  emerald rests in her hand, once  sharp and jagged, now softened.  The little girl traces its dull...