I am.

I am but space a cluster of mess; my skin full of chemicals that has let hurricanes in and planets and scars like plastered wax stuck to my chest. I am the white sclera the peeling film of tired eyes; I am sinew of bones that make up home with feelings reaching from the praline …

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Autumn by Izzie Simmons

Autumn: We leaned into the last few shards of August’s crisp edges Poetry was flowing from the finger tips of lovers The sheet music was richer to flatter the coming season My chest was swelling with gratitude for moments I’d been given I sat amongst the gardens of no agenda - no needs Pulling the …

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