winter-worn bark clutched my skin the trunk cast a shadow in the treehouse where I clasped your hand quiet fingers laced beyond their line of sight my hands shook mint leaves into teacups fluttering, sifting, forgotten in those early hours when we were the most crystalline versions of ourselves the newsprint meant to wrap your dishes […]

old times

soon enough no one will remember that sticky month everything tasted like Christmas Paul’s puddle of blood congealed on rough concrete dropped silverware a clatter of church bells the squall flooding the ash black river James Dean crucified on the ceiling won’t rise again marker tattoos seeping into smooth scars fading slowly


Little Known Fact:  I was not born Lydia Page.  I changed my name (rather recently, as it were) because of things like Feminism and Autonomy and Daddy Issues, or something.  It was among the best decisions I’ve ever made, even though I still get confused when professors take attendance.  It was also the most tedious […]