poem (July 22, 2026)

Spent the summer sick, spent the summer dying. Spent the summer writing a story being chased by an angel and writing words that scare me on purpose. Almost a whole season without using my name as a breadcrumb, phone’s been “broken” for two weeks now for dramatic tension. Went to the lake twice so far. Brought a flashlight, bright and terrible, the one I bring with me to break into houses.

A week ago I convinced myself I was a character in a story where I deserve to get punished.

Spent the summer on top of a hill, looking down at the houses and telling myself the land would look better with a god trapped underneath them. It’s been a summer of lightning bolts, of tracking mud into the house, of boxes and boxes and boxes and I’ve been writing this story but I haven’t been writing the story, not really, I’ve been living it. So it’s almost been a whole summer where nothing was said.

Says my captor, “you’ll get out. you’ve always gotten out before.”

Spent a summer trying (and succeeding) to read more. Spent a summer kneeling by the sea, playing with the idea of a book that starts with a drowning. Spent a summer planning my return.

I’ve not been paid for my work, only rewarded for my efforts. This is no different.

Write a story about a man with many faces. Write a story about the girl outside your window. Write a story about when it gets dark out and you want to kill something. Write a story about a mosquito bride. Write a story inspired by that dream you had, you know the one. Write a story about everything that’s happening to you - write a story so hyperconfessional that it cuts everyone it touches and write a story that doesn’t steal from songs you like, for a change.

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I’m trapped in here.