Prose Poetry: My Bones

My bones are hollow, cracked, and dusty. Only good for breaking, only reset badly. I cannot layer them with books and hope the weight won’t crumble them. I cannot rest weary elbows on them and hope the years forget to splinter through. They are made for nothing. The world slips through the porous openings in … Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Inbox

An old one. Maybe it seems like an odd choice, thanks to its melancholy, but it was written during New Year’s once, and seemed sort of appropriate, if angst-y. My inbox used to be full of you. And I hadn’t realized just how much it had emptied, just how trivial the content there had become, … Continue reading