Behind these eyesA child cries Brick hands reaching to be heldThe sun’s gazes through the curtainMelting, scorching, pealingA womb within a room on the edge of doomFleeting, fleeting, repeatingEyes openA cry of despair when there is no one there to careCrash, crash, crashWhere did you stash it? Where did you stash it?Show me! Show me!Continue reading “Fine Lines: Explorations of queerhood through drawing”