the light crawls in,
all golden and sticky,
like a man who’s sure
I want him here.
I make coffee
I don’t really want—
the mug is chipped,
I’m chipped,
everything in this house
is chipped.
I take it to the little doorstep,
bare feet on the warm concrete,
the cat already there,
tail curling slow in the air.
another one appears from nowhere—
they always do—
like the street keeps sending me
its strays.
the cats watch me
like they’ ve seen
a thousand mornings like this,
and survived them all.
I tell them
I might not go out today,
they blink slow—
their way of saying
you were never going to.
there’s a bruise on my thigh
from walking into the same table
for the third time this week,
and I can’t decide
if it’s clumsiness
or a quiet need
to leave marks on myself
before the world does.
I sip the coffee—
it’s bitter,
I’m bitter,
and the air outside
is already too hot to trust.
the cats stretch in the sun,
full of something like grace.
I stretch in the shadow,
full of something like wanting.
the day
doesn’t wait for women like me.
The shameless poems 2023 - 2025