Tasha Bovain
@tashabovain.bsky.social
I write to uncover the lies of womanhood.
Poems & essays on relationships, body love & becoming.
Bird lover. Reformed New Yorker in Charlotte.
Subscribe & let’s burn expectations together: https://womanhoodisalie.substack.com
Poems & essays on relationships, body love & becoming.
Bird lover. Reformed New Yorker in Charlotte.
Subscribe & let’s burn expectations together: https://womanhoodisalie.substack.com
I plant seeds and root myself in the frozen soil of winter—
heart open, spine flexible, belly listening for God's guidance.
#poetry #micropoem #faith
heart open, spine flexible, belly listening for God's guidance.
#poetry #micropoem #faith
December 15, 2025 at 10:43 PM
I plant seeds and root myself in the frozen soil of winter—
heart open, spine flexible, belly listening for God's guidance.
#poetry #micropoem #faith
heart open, spine flexible, belly listening for God's guidance.
#poetry #micropoem #faith
You feel like a ghost.
Like a film I’ve seen once
but can’t remember the name of.
A hesitant thought at the tip of my lips.
You are everywhere,
a squatter at the edges of my memories.
You vanish in the daylight.
So I stay asleep
until I can feel your breath
against my neck.
#poetry
Like a film I’ve seen once
but can’t remember the name of.
A hesitant thought at the tip of my lips.
You are everywhere,
a squatter at the edges of my memories.
You vanish in the daylight.
So I stay asleep
until I can feel your breath
against my neck.
#poetry
December 13, 2025 at 8:10 PM
You feel like a ghost.
Like a film I’ve seen once
but can’t remember the name of.
A hesitant thought at the tip of my lips.
You are everywhere,
a squatter at the edges of my memories.
You vanish in the daylight.
So I stay asleep
until I can feel your breath
against my neck.
#poetry
Like a film I’ve seen once
but can’t remember the name of.
A hesitant thought at the tip of my lips.
You are everywhere,
a squatter at the edges of my memories.
You vanish in the daylight.
So I stay asleep
until I can feel your breath
against my neck.
#poetry
Reposted by Tasha Bovain
Spray-on Flavour
Artificial flavours,
Offer a fleeting sense,
But leave the palate bare.
Mass-produced spray-on truth,
In patriotic shades,
Shake well then to believe.
#poem #poemoftheday #poetry #poems #bluesky #blueskypoetry #blueskyart #art #truth
Artificial flavours,
Offer a fleeting sense,
But leave the palate bare.
Mass-produced spray-on truth,
In patriotic shades,
Shake well then to believe.
#poem #poemoftheday #poetry #poems #bluesky #blueskypoetry #blueskyart #art #truth
December 8, 2025 at 8:54 AM
Spray-on Flavour
Artificial flavours,
Offer a fleeting sense,
But leave the palate bare.
Mass-produced spray-on truth,
In patriotic shades,
Shake well then to believe.
#poem #poemoftheday #poetry #poems #bluesky #blueskypoetry #blueskyart #art #truth
Artificial flavours,
Offer a fleeting sense,
But leave the palate bare.
Mass-produced spray-on truth,
In patriotic shades,
Shake well then to believe.
#poem #poemoftheday #poetry #poems #bluesky #blueskypoetry #blueskyart #art #truth
I watched his hands glide across the turntable. I wanted his love to make music I could dance to all night. But it was more blues than rhythm. “Stupid” beat against my back—his mating ritual of choice. Twenty years later, my body still trembles when I see a DJ.
#poetry #poem #writersky #WIP
#poetry #poem #writersky #WIP
December 9, 2025 at 11:12 PM
I watched his hands glide across the turntable. I wanted his love to make music I could dance to all night. But it was more blues than rhythm. “Stupid” beat against my back—his mating ritual of choice. Twenty years later, my body still trembles when I see a DJ.
#poetry #poem #writersky #WIP
#poetry #poem #writersky #WIP
My mother raised me strong,
more fire than comfort.
A harsh lip was her love language.
Numbness crinkling beneath her skin
like a handkerchief was my training for adulthood.
Now two grown women, still navigating the war,
hands joined,
ashes cool the fire between our toes.
#poetry #micropoem
more fire than comfort.
A harsh lip was her love language.
Numbness crinkling beneath her skin
like a handkerchief was my training for adulthood.
Now two grown women, still navigating the war,
hands joined,
ashes cool the fire between our toes.
#poetry #micropoem
December 4, 2025 at 11:53 PM
My mother raised me strong,
more fire than comfort.
A harsh lip was her love language.
Numbness crinkling beneath her skin
like a handkerchief was my training for adulthood.
Now two grown women, still navigating the war,
hands joined,
ashes cool the fire between our toes.
#poetry #micropoem
more fire than comfort.
A harsh lip was her love language.
Numbness crinkling beneath her skin
like a handkerchief was my training for adulthood.
Now two grown women, still navigating the war,
hands joined,
ashes cool the fire between our toes.
#poetry #micropoem
I didn’t choose to be a writer.
It chose me.
At fifteen, when my best friend’s boyfriend held a knife to her throat.
In college, when a stranger groped me in a parking lot.
I write because the only way I know for women to be free
is to start by telling my own truth.
#poetry #writersky #poem
It chose me.
At fifteen, when my best friend’s boyfriend held a knife to her throat.
In college, when a stranger groped me in a parking lot.
I write because the only way I know for women to be free
is to start by telling my own truth.
#poetry #writersky #poem
December 2, 2025 at 10:32 PM
I didn’t choose to be a writer.
It chose me.
At fifteen, when my best friend’s boyfriend held a knife to her throat.
In college, when a stranger groped me in a parking lot.
I write because the only way I know for women to be free
is to start by telling my own truth.
#poetry #writersky #poem
It chose me.
At fifteen, when my best friend’s boyfriend held a knife to her throat.
In college, when a stranger groped me in a parking lot.
I write because the only way I know for women to be free
is to start by telling my own truth.
#poetry #writersky #poem
Damaged things have always piqued my curiosity.
I know what it feels like to be ignored, discarded,
flimsy in others’ palms.
In becoming undone,
we find restoration
in resisting perfection.
For the women in transformation, there is beauty in chaos.
#poetry #writersky #poem #writingcommunity
I know what it feels like to be ignored, discarded,
flimsy in others’ palms.
In becoming undone,
we find restoration
in resisting perfection.
For the women in transformation, there is beauty in chaos.
#poetry #writersky #poem #writingcommunity
November 26, 2025 at 10:48 PM
Damaged things have always piqued my curiosity.
I know what it feels like to be ignored, discarded,
flimsy in others’ palms.
In becoming undone,
we find restoration
in resisting perfection.
For the women in transformation, there is beauty in chaos.
#poetry #writersky #poem #writingcommunity
I know what it feels like to be ignored, discarded,
flimsy in others’ palms.
In becoming undone,
we find restoration
in resisting perfection.
For the women in transformation, there is beauty in chaos.
#poetry #writersky #poem #writingcommunity
Reposted by Tasha Bovain
Take me to the river,
drop me in the water
Dip me in the river,
drop me in the water
Washing me down,
washing me down.
Talking Heads, 20th century
#Photography #Wisdom #Poetry #SpeirGorm #StreetPhotography #India #ImageAndVerse #ArtOfBlueSky #PhotographersOfBlueSky #EastCoastKin #Scape #WaterScape
drop me in the water
Dip me in the river,
drop me in the water
Washing me down,
washing me down.
Talking Heads, 20th century
#Photography #Wisdom #Poetry #SpeirGorm #StreetPhotography #India #ImageAndVerse #ArtOfBlueSky #PhotographersOfBlueSky #EastCoastKin #Scape #WaterScape
November 21, 2025 at 5:28 AM
Take me to the river,
drop me in the water
Dip me in the river,
drop me in the water
Washing me down,
washing me down.
Talking Heads, 20th century
#Photography #Wisdom #Poetry #SpeirGorm #StreetPhotography #India #ImageAndVerse #ArtOfBlueSky #PhotographersOfBlueSky #EastCoastKin #Scape #WaterScape
drop me in the water
Dip me in the river,
drop me in the water
Washing me down,
washing me down.
Talking Heads, 20th century
#Photography #Wisdom #Poetry #SpeirGorm #StreetPhotography #India #ImageAndVerse #ArtOfBlueSky #PhotographersOfBlueSky #EastCoastKin #Scape #WaterScape
Your body is an offering,
your hips, a poem.
Your eyes pierce the earth when you stare,
and words rise from your tongue.
Your body is an offering—
an altar of dialogue,
the white space between the moon and the sun.
#poetry #writersky #poem #artistlife
your hips, a poem.
Your eyes pierce the earth when you stare,
and words rise from your tongue.
Your body is an offering—
an altar of dialogue,
the white space between the moon and the sun.
#poetry #writersky #poem #artistlife
November 21, 2025 at 6:52 PM
Your body is an offering,
your hips, a poem.
Your eyes pierce the earth when you stare,
and words rise from your tongue.
Your body is an offering—
an altar of dialogue,
the white space between the moon and the sun.
#poetry #writersky #poem #artistlife
your hips, a poem.
Your eyes pierce the earth when you stare,
and words rise from your tongue.
Your body is an offering—
an altar of dialogue,
the white space between the moon and the sun.
#poetry #writersky #poem #artistlife
Is loneliness a genetic craving carved into our bones?
The familiar dance of reaching for a partner we can see
but can’t hold.
Maybe your hunger isn’t for companionship.
Maybe you’re just craving yourself
in a different form.
#poetry #writersky #poem #blueskypoetry #loneliness
The familiar dance of reaching for a partner we can see
but can’t hold.
Maybe your hunger isn’t for companionship.
Maybe you’re just craving yourself
in a different form.
#poetry #writersky #poem #blueskypoetry #loneliness
November 18, 2025 at 11:06 PM
Is loneliness a genetic craving carved into our bones?
The familiar dance of reaching for a partner we can see
but can’t hold.
Maybe your hunger isn’t for companionship.
Maybe you’re just craving yourself
in a different form.
#poetry #writersky #poem #blueskypoetry #loneliness
The familiar dance of reaching for a partner we can see
but can’t hold.
Maybe your hunger isn’t for companionship.
Maybe you’re just craving yourself
in a different form.
#poetry #writersky #poem #blueskypoetry #loneliness
Reposted by Tasha Bovain
Seasons turn slowly
Still your pulse remembers them
Tightly hold your crush
#Haikufeels #Crush #Senryu #Haiku #Poetry #Micropoetry #BlueskyPhotography #Haiga #ImageAndVerse #Clouds #Autumn #Winter #Skyscape #Love
Still your pulse remembers them
Tightly hold your crush
#Haikufeels #Crush #Senryu #Haiku #Poetry #Micropoetry #BlueskyPhotography #Haiga #ImageAndVerse #Clouds #Autumn #Winter #Skyscape #Love
November 17, 2025 at 2:03 PM
Seasons turn slowly
Still your pulse remembers them
Tightly hold your crush
#Haikufeels #Crush #Senryu #Haiku #Poetry #Micropoetry #BlueskyPhotography #Haiga #ImageAndVerse #Clouds #Autumn #Winter #Skyscape #Love
Still your pulse remembers them
Tightly hold your crush
#Haikufeels #Crush #Senryu #Haiku #Poetry #Micropoetry #BlueskyPhotography #Haiga #ImageAndVerse #Clouds #Autumn #Winter #Skyscape #Love
Happiness finds me in a corner,
asks me to dance.
Its sweaty body rubs against mine,
wet with enthusiasm.
I match its rhythm
until a headline scurries past,
baring a devilish grin.
Go to work, cry, sleep—
a never-ending beat.
Still, happiness finds me
in a corner, smiling.
#poetry #writersky
asks me to dance.
Its sweaty body rubs against mine,
wet with enthusiasm.
I match its rhythm
until a headline scurries past,
baring a devilish grin.
Go to work, cry, sleep—
a never-ending beat.
Still, happiness finds me
in a corner, smiling.
#poetry #writersky
November 15, 2025 at 12:36 PM
Happiness finds me in a corner,
asks me to dance.
Its sweaty body rubs against mine,
wet with enthusiasm.
I match its rhythm
until a headline scurries past,
baring a devilish grin.
Go to work, cry, sleep—
a never-ending beat.
Still, happiness finds me
in a corner, smiling.
#poetry #writersky
asks me to dance.
Its sweaty body rubs against mine,
wet with enthusiasm.
I match its rhythm
until a headline scurries past,
baring a devilish grin.
Go to work, cry, sleep—
a never-ending beat.
Still, happiness finds me
in a corner, smiling.
#poetry #writersky
My mother says this is reality—
make your body a table,
prepare a plate.
Expectations are dangerous
for an unkept woman.
When a man asks my name,
I search my memory for her smile,
offer it in sacrifice.
Expectations are dangerous.
So is reality
for a woman who feeds hungry men.
#poetry
make your body a table,
prepare a plate.
Expectations are dangerous
for an unkept woman.
When a man asks my name,
I search my memory for her smile,
offer it in sacrifice.
Expectations are dangerous.
So is reality
for a woman who feeds hungry men.
#poetry
November 10, 2025 at 10:15 PM
My mother says this is reality—
make your body a table,
prepare a plate.
Expectations are dangerous
for an unkept woman.
When a man asks my name,
I search my memory for her smile,
offer it in sacrifice.
Expectations are dangerous.
So is reality
for a woman who feeds hungry men.
#poetry
make your body a table,
prepare a plate.
Expectations are dangerous
for an unkept woman.
When a man asks my name,
I search my memory for her smile,
offer it in sacrifice.
Expectations are dangerous.
So is reality
for a woman who feeds hungry men.
#poetry
Each morning,
I start on my knees,
thanking God.
At noon,
I worship filtered bodies
and curated lives,
head bowed,
scrolling through my feed.
At night,
I no longer hear God,
only my fingers clicking,
praying I’ll wake up
in a different life,
a smaller body—
a heaven without comparison.
#poetry
I start on my knees,
thanking God.
At noon,
I worship filtered bodies
and curated lives,
head bowed,
scrolling through my feed.
At night,
I no longer hear God,
only my fingers clicking,
praying I’ll wake up
in a different life,
a smaller body—
a heaven without comparison.
#poetry
November 9, 2025 at 7:43 PM
Each morning,
I start on my knees,
thanking God.
At noon,
I worship filtered bodies
and curated lives,
head bowed,
scrolling through my feed.
At night,
I no longer hear God,
only my fingers clicking,
praying I’ll wake up
in a different life,
a smaller body—
a heaven without comparison.
#poetry
I start on my knees,
thanking God.
At noon,
I worship filtered bodies
and curated lives,
head bowed,
scrolling through my feed.
At night,
I no longer hear God,
only my fingers clicking,
praying I’ll wake up
in a different life,
a smaller body—
a heaven without comparison.
#poetry
There’s a knock at the door.
I don’t answer.
I want privacy.
Can a woman exist unseen?
Even screens have eyes.
I unzip my body,
watch my lover swell under my gaze.
I want privacy
before I’m captured under another watchful eye,
bend against their razor edges,
split myself into two.
#poetry
I don’t answer.
I want privacy.
Can a woman exist unseen?
Even screens have eyes.
I unzip my body,
watch my lover swell under my gaze.
I want privacy
before I’m captured under another watchful eye,
bend against their razor edges,
split myself into two.
#poetry
November 8, 2025 at 11:50 PM
There’s a knock at the door.
I don’t answer.
I want privacy.
Can a woman exist unseen?
Even screens have eyes.
I unzip my body,
watch my lover swell under my gaze.
I want privacy
before I’m captured under another watchful eye,
bend against their razor edges,
split myself into two.
#poetry
I don’t answer.
I want privacy.
Can a woman exist unseen?
Even screens have eyes.
I unzip my body,
watch my lover swell under my gaze.
I want privacy
before I’m captured under another watchful eye,
bend against their razor edges,
split myself into two.
#poetry
She’s single at the bar,
searching for hope
in a shot of tequila.
It soothes her rage,
peels back disappointment.
A man at the bar invites her
to his place.
She takes another sip,
presses the burn against her lips,
body trembling,
and returns home alone to write.
Faith sharp in her hands.
#poetry
searching for hope
in a shot of tequila.
It soothes her rage,
peels back disappointment.
A man at the bar invites her
to his place.
She takes another sip,
presses the burn against her lips,
body trembling,
and returns home alone to write.
Faith sharp in her hands.
#poetry
November 5, 2025 at 6:32 PM
She’s single at the bar,
searching for hope
in a shot of tequila.
It soothes her rage,
peels back disappointment.
A man at the bar invites her
to his place.
She takes another sip,
presses the burn against her lips,
body trembling,
and returns home alone to write.
Faith sharp in her hands.
#poetry
searching for hope
in a shot of tequila.
It soothes her rage,
peels back disappointment.
A man at the bar invites her
to his place.
She takes another sip,
presses the burn against her lips,
body trembling,
and returns home alone to write.
Faith sharp in her hands.
#poetry
I am not a girl's girl.
I don't tuck in my elbows
or clench my jaw before I speak.
I cover every corner of the table,
scrape my plate clean.
I am not petite like my mother.
Fat hangs like the American flag.
I spread my toes and stretch out my hands,
fill the room with my body's demands.
#poetry
I don't tuck in my elbows
or clench my jaw before I speak.
I cover every corner of the table,
scrape my plate clean.
I am not petite like my mother.
Fat hangs like the American flag.
I spread my toes and stretch out my hands,
fill the room with my body's demands.
#poetry
November 4, 2025 at 10:32 PM
I am not a girl's girl.
I don't tuck in my elbows
or clench my jaw before I speak.
I cover every corner of the table,
scrape my plate clean.
I am not petite like my mother.
Fat hangs like the American flag.
I spread my toes and stretch out my hands,
fill the room with my body's demands.
#poetry
I don't tuck in my elbows
or clench my jaw before I speak.
I cover every corner of the table,
scrape my plate clean.
I am not petite like my mother.
Fat hangs like the American flag.
I spread my toes and stretch out my hands,
fill the room with my body's demands.
#poetry
I kiss boys at sixteen
under streetlights,
palms pressed to my face.
Names sit heavy on my tongue
like a sharp object
I force down to his hum.
I kiss boys at sixteen
under streetlights,
folding into backseats
like a roadmap
searching for home.
#poetry #writingcommunity #writersky #memoir
under streetlights,
palms pressed to my face.
Names sit heavy on my tongue
like a sharp object
I force down to his hum.
I kiss boys at sixteen
under streetlights,
folding into backseats
like a roadmap
searching for home.
#poetry #writingcommunity #writersky #memoir
November 4, 2025 at 12:44 AM
I kiss boys at sixteen
under streetlights,
palms pressed to my face.
Names sit heavy on my tongue
like a sharp object
I force down to his hum.
I kiss boys at sixteen
under streetlights,
folding into backseats
like a roadmap
searching for home.
#poetry #writingcommunity #writersky #memoir
under streetlights,
palms pressed to my face.
Names sit heavy on my tongue
like a sharp object
I force down to his hum.
I kiss boys at sixteen
under streetlights,
folding into backseats
like a roadmap
searching for home.
#poetry #writingcommunity #writersky #memoir
The day before my diagnosis,
I waged war with my thighs.
Caffeine pills and pre-workout,
semiautomatic weapons.
I froze under the doctor's gaze,
cold probe guiding my breath.
"Watch and wait," she said.
I had been watched my whole life
by men, by managers,
my body a landfill.
#poetry #WIP
I waged war with my thighs.
Caffeine pills and pre-workout,
semiautomatic weapons.
I froze under the doctor's gaze,
cold probe guiding my breath.
"Watch and wait," she said.
I had been watched my whole life
by men, by managers,
my body a landfill.
#poetry #WIP
November 2, 2025 at 9:12 PM
Traumas line up.
I press a pen into my palm,
mouth open wide,
set bombs off with song.
Hurt is a microphone
my voice transforms—
curses into chorus,
pain into harmony.
I am the melody in your sleep.
#poetry #writingcommunity #writersky
I press a pen into my palm,
mouth open wide,
set bombs off with song.
Hurt is a microphone
my voice transforms—
curses into chorus,
pain into harmony.
I am the melody in your sleep.
#poetry #writingcommunity #writersky
October 31, 2025 at 10:09 PM
Traumas line up.
I press a pen into my palm,
mouth open wide,
set bombs off with song.
Hurt is a microphone
my voice transforms—
curses into chorus,
pain into harmony.
I am the melody in your sleep.
#poetry #writingcommunity #writersky
I press a pen into my palm,
mouth open wide,
set bombs off with song.
Hurt is a microphone
my voice transforms—
curses into chorus,
pain into harmony.
I am the melody in your sleep.
#poetry #writingcommunity #writersky
I’m the quiet girl in the corner,
longing to bleed red onto my lips.
I slice myself into pieces.
Peel off extra skin
so everyone can have me.
If I stop pretending,
will people still want me?
Or will they toss the pieces away?
If I breathe deeper into my mask,
will my face disappear?
#poetry
longing to bleed red onto my lips.
I slice myself into pieces.
Peel off extra skin
so everyone can have me.
If I stop pretending,
will people still want me?
Or will they toss the pieces away?
If I breathe deeper into my mask,
will my face disappear?
#poetry
October 30, 2025 at 10:46 PM
I’m the quiet girl in the corner,
longing to bleed red onto my lips.
I slice myself into pieces.
Peel off extra skin
so everyone can have me.
If I stop pretending,
will people still want me?
Or will they toss the pieces away?
If I breathe deeper into my mask,
will my face disappear?
#poetry
longing to bleed red onto my lips.
I slice myself into pieces.
Peel off extra skin
so everyone can have me.
If I stop pretending,
will people still want me?
Or will they toss the pieces away?
If I breathe deeper into my mask,
will my face disappear?
#poetry
I have sat in church pews,
my body restless beneath men’s hands.
I didn’t meet God in a sermon,
but in a club—
hips gyrating to a reggae song.
He whispered,
put down the drink.
I’ll wait for you at home.
When have you found God in unexpected places?
#poetry #writersky #writingcommunity
my body restless beneath men’s hands.
I didn’t meet God in a sermon,
but in a club—
hips gyrating to a reggae song.
He whispered,
put down the drink.
I’ll wait for you at home.
When have you found God in unexpected places?
#poetry #writersky #writingcommunity
October 29, 2025 at 3:32 PM
I have sat in church pews,
my body restless beneath men’s hands.
I didn’t meet God in a sermon,
but in a club—
hips gyrating to a reggae song.
He whispered,
put down the drink.
I’ll wait for you at home.
When have you found God in unexpected places?
#poetry #writersky #writingcommunity
my body restless beneath men’s hands.
I didn’t meet God in a sermon,
but in a club—
hips gyrating to a reggae song.
He whispered,
put down the drink.
I’ll wait for you at home.
When have you found God in unexpected places?
#poetry #writersky #writingcommunity
Her lips part to confess her haunting.
Our mouths open wide to cradle her truth.
The car ride home becomes an infirmary,
mending our aching bones.
As she speaks into the night,
our ghosts disappear
into the cold wind
like an answered prayer.
Shame cannot exist
where women gather.
#poetry
Our mouths open wide to cradle her truth.
The car ride home becomes an infirmary,
mending our aching bones.
As she speaks into the night,
our ghosts disappear
into the cold wind
like an answered prayer.
Shame cannot exist
where women gather.
#poetry
October 28, 2025 at 10:14 PM
Her lips part to confess her haunting.
Our mouths open wide to cradle her truth.
The car ride home becomes an infirmary,
mending our aching bones.
As she speaks into the night,
our ghosts disappear
into the cold wind
like an answered prayer.
Shame cannot exist
where women gather.
#poetry
Our mouths open wide to cradle her truth.
The car ride home becomes an infirmary,
mending our aching bones.
As she speaks into the night,
our ghosts disappear
into the cold wind
like an answered prayer.
Shame cannot exist
where women gather.
#poetry
My hands scale every memory,
reach back to touch my grandmother’s face
before the earth inhales her body.
I see her in my mother’s face,
my mother’s face in mine.
Shame passed down
anchors my feet.
I stand on top of their silence,
mouth stretched wide—
I exhale chains and kneel.
#poetry
reach back to touch my grandmother’s face
before the earth inhales her body.
I see her in my mother’s face,
my mother’s face in mine.
Shame passed down
anchors my feet.
I stand on top of their silence,
mouth stretched wide—
I exhale chains and kneel.
#poetry
October 27, 2025 at 10:05 PM
My hands scale every memory,
reach back to touch my grandmother’s face
before the earth inhales her body.
I see her in my mother’s face,
my mother’s face in mine.
Shame passed down
anchors my feet.
I stand on top of their silence,
mouth stretched wide—
I exhale chains and kneel.
#poetry
reach back to touch my grandmother’s face
before the earth inhales her body.
I see her in my mother’s face,
my mother’s face in mine.
Shame passed down
anchors my feet.
I stand on top of their silence,
mouth stretched wide—
I exhale chains and kneel.
#poetry
Reposted by Tasha Bovain
October 27, 2025 at 7:56 PM