Myself Thought Poem by Natasa To

winter-season and in
the burnt forest
of my eyeglass, a underground
that makes me as burial inside ---
to be not enough or just not enough
My hands become dirty hands:
hearth. I eat donuts for doubt,
a in secret bleached
old as lie. I out-want
like devil.
If I were a insects—
were I—then you'd hope
for dead, and paint
more red into the spot.
written by Natasa To
pen name tulip
04/10/2022 at 2: 48am EST