mother, i cannot weave my writer’s song
my loom lies dead and the day is done before the sun has risen, my work finished
before it has begun.
mother, i cannot lift my head to rest in the bowl of your palms. leave me – i am in love
and by every god i swear that i shall wither;
rosy flesh unfurling
from lily bones,melancholy-soft, sweetly singing
– sappho ; hear me | t.b / @raggedhearts