They all say not to bite the hand that feeds you, but what if those hands hurt you? What if they hold the poisoned apple?
astagesetforcatastrophe, fragment of “another snow”
It is still peach season the morning you walk out the door. I make our bed too, you know. I suppose at this point I should be calling it “my bed” instead, but habits are hard to break.
Then I rummage through the fridge. Wash a peach and split it apart clean down the middle. This is their season, but not ours, I guess. I take a bite of it and then wonder if we even had a season.
I look to the window and then the door. Wondering at what point you will run through and bust it down like it is still your home.
Audrey Ying, draft of “i. peach season”
I am different now.
I do not yearn anymore
to be the tide that lifts
but the hurricane
that capsizes every ship.
Audrey Ying, “jetsam”
astagesetforcatastrophe reblogged
“do you forget you are better now? even when you wake up in the cornfields as a mouse and not inside the labyrinth of the bear’s belly? do you see yourself becoming less like vase? i do. it means the cough syrup is working like it should. it means only one-third of you dies when the window shuts now. it means you’ll be holding onto whole again.”
— astagesetforcatastrophe, progress
In this new world,
I promise to stay wild.
I slash the ropes
from every bridge I cross
& then trade bird’s nest for hair.
I save the last matchbox
to light the moon for my own feet
& call it self-care.
I empty myself
and don’t miss whatever
was once there.
Audrey Ying, “a new world”
And if the heart is not strong
when it can stretch farther than any country
& keep writing a backdoor for the invader,
all else must be weak.
Audrey Ying, “overstretching”