this is a poem without an ending.
this is the cycle of dusk to dark, the child’s palms holding shame, the ugliness in your closet that refuses to die. this is a breath, which is a bomb, which is warm, ruined, that kind of feeling. these trembling hands, these bruised lungs, this unspeakable body. i was never any good at being holy.
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AuthorNathan Lee's poetry and prose. More of my work can be found on my Instagram. Archives
March 2020
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