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honey - james roach

Writer's picture: theperiwinklepelictheperiwinklepelic


Slow bubbles of gold

sticky on my eyelashes, 

lips damming the mess

from my cheeks, 

you are a sweet

I can’t taste. 

The salted sting

of never collapsed 

into my chest.

We are a selfie you took

at the bus station

beneath a bright gray sky. 

If I look at it now, 

I use my thumb 

to cover the anxious swirl

of my face. 

I let my hand linger

on your hip after our hug

before I knew 

the bruise of it.





James Roach (they/he) is a queer, trans, sober poet most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? He currently lives in St. Louis.

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