Laura A. Lord

I find myself slack-jawed Finger grip Half backwards step Sharp shoulders to my earlobes A subpar cry of what I wish was rage But reads exhaustion Reads barely mobile Reads guttural grumble I realize fear is so common It executes flawlessly Slips from men…

I am simultaneously too much all at once and too little, too late.

The first time I said “no” It sounded like “I love you.”

my grandfather stood waist deep in his Sunday best white pressed sleeves rolled back to the elbows the thin line press of his undershirt stuck like pith to his stomach, chest this was the same pool I’d done flips into the day before red-rimmed eyes – chlo…

I told you I was broken and with a manic urgency you set off screaming down the road of destructive positivity – “You’re perfect, babydoll.”

You are a hollow concrete wall, stretching miles into the gray sky.

This body is a thing of beauty.

I want to disentangle the image I see of me, anger parked behind my teeth like a tire on top of the curb – the loud, gritty crunch of asphalt enamel twisting under the weight of it, crouched on the tip of my tongue, a tile tiger propped against the wall,…

My memory is red wrapping paper crinkled at the corners.

Grief is a punch in the throat while my lips are wrapped around my favorite piece of hard candy.

I can paint an impassioned trip down memory lane as sunflowers growing with wild abandon along the windowsill.