a sigil stains my palm,
i wrote the same lines everyday-
in the same spot-
for a year. it is
not quite hope, that i have,
rather a sense of home.
ink is not magic and yet i think
it might save me.
a sigil stains my palm,
ink from a artist's pen,
one that i carry like a knife.
a sigil is engraved in my skin.
it reminds me that i am
not safe.
i treat my skin like stone and my
body like a temple,
fire and knives and home and bread and butter
and nothing and everything.
a sigil is engraved in my skin.
it reads i am
not enough.
-icarus
YOU ARE READING
an idiots guide to life; how to survive the badlands of wyoming
Poetrythe slightly deranged ramblings of a teenage trans guy living in wyoming there's no overarching theme but there sure is a lot of dogs, horses, and god(s) . i do not know what i am talking about 97% of the time mostly posted chronologically in order...
