honeycomb

Monotony is the strangest thing about death before it happens. The rhythm loses its novelty. Decisions arrive and are made, moment by moment. And when you're very, very lucky, some of the decisions were made before they arrived. The breathing takes on a certain cadence, a hesitancy, like

late at the bar he opened his own mouth and showed me barbs of hatred, plucked from the minds of others, sharpened by his own hand edged with something viscous and oozing, turned inward, inward: i was born, and the keys of privilege were put into my hands, and for

It's July 2nd, 2025. Earlier this week I had a dream about a baby. Two babies. Two babies and a woman. One baby was mine. She was born. She lasted a few breaths. Enough time to hold her. Enough time to love her. Enough time to tell her

it's a different kind of knowing, i told him, the voice i use to ask questions in my own head. how did i know? have you ever been in love? you can list out the reasons you are or aren't, a million of them, but the

#2 That bundle of sticks looks awfully heavy for one little crow. Is the sun rising, or is it setting? Are these burdens or provisions? #6 Do you remember when you were brave? The first time you said no? The first time you asked for help? When you invited yourself

down out of the mountains, wading through blood, the silence is deafening, the relief empty, the unarmed hand cold and naked. this is the temple that was lost, standing bright in my memory as the floor crumbles under my feet. I warred against myself, each foray from the caves a

I used to tell people, which based on my phrasing I might be reconsidering, I used to tell people that I had to learn to interact with other humans from a book. When I was young, people were incomprehensible. I read, I mimicked, I went and got a whole-ass psychology

Do you ever feel like you've tried everything to solve a problem, and nothing has worked? So maybe I'm trying to solve the wrong problem. Why do my fingertips still find the tops of mountains? Why does my mouth find the beach, tongue pulled from my

the last week curls around me, fragile as a pencil shaving, a warping funhouse mirror of memories. they cleaned the carpet in my apartment building, and the soap smell grabbed me by the hand and twirled me around, back to the pool and the wall of your room, back to

It seems odd to me that such a wave of gratitude could come from such negativity. Although considering I am who I am, an avatar of contradiction, it also seems fitting that the more others despair, the more sure I am that we will all remain human till the very

it isn't often, the zeroing in on something so small, trying to memorize the placement of every atom, while time obligingly stands still. the door is so new that the slide-thud of the deadbolt feels oily, the key silent in the still stiff lock, and for a moment

what do i want to say on this night, this night of all nights? the first time i saw tacoma it was the biggest city i'd ever seen. it wasn't, because i had been to new york, but here i saw the city all spread out

i was there so often that summer you helped me set up a little bedroom in the back of the house, just a couch and a table behind a curtain. the bedrooms were too stuffy and the two windows filled with nothing but trees were too compelling. the tree inside

i lost my calendar, so last January has been replaced by That January. a near miss missile, a dry cough, the eerie groans of the person dying next to me, and the ancestral knowledge of how to drive on a freeway in a whiteout snowstorm that never leaves you, That

my feet used to know that carpeted hallway so well, as did yours, but I only knew it backwards. your hands on my arms, my hands under your elbows, walking, walking, because once someone stops walking they might never do it again, so please keep on walking, walking, walking, please.

You made me angry in a way that I couldn't express. I think I hope I never see you again. You were perfectly polite and helpful and made it clear that I was not invited to get to know you. I only needed one person to believe me,

I couldn't look at him, so I looked at the trees outside the window instead. We don't always get fall here, not like in the east, but fall gets a little longer each year. They looked like stained glass, painting the sunlight before it reached the

it's my favorite season, the season of in-between too hot in the sun too cold in the shade there are so many apples i didn't pick, now rotting down there under the balcony. they're dying, lopped off limbs, a feast for wasps and worms