Writing     Blue in the face as I hold my breath, hoping the lack of oxygen will restore the smell of sun-bleached ladybugs on my windowsill. There’s nothing more I wouldn’t do to go back and drink metallic water out of the hose. My teeth ache thinking about the cold water covering my sugar cube cavities. They’re filled now of course I'm not childish and irresponsible. 

-Sugar Cube Cavities (12/11/25 4:05 pm)
 


    Once I see more than 3 deer in a field, I know I've reached Appalachia. Forgotten, shrouded in trees, sits the place that calls for me in my sleep. It’s not a voice; it’s a whistle. The wind blowing through tree branches is like a siren call. The deer skull that hangs on a brick wall in my apartment knows me; I know it. Our bones are from the same place. So maybe I’ll go home and kiss my dad's rifle, hoping to soften the blow when its friend meets the same death and ends up cold and exposed on a brick wall.

 
-Deer Down (1/10/26 6:05 pm)



   I whole heatedly don’t believe in god, but sometimes when your hands squeeze my soft and pliable waist, I think for a second that maybe I'd worship you. I never felt god in church, but I feel it wrapped together like a Celticknot under the weight of blankets. The spot between my eyebrows blessed every morning and night with your lips. 

-My religion has green eyes, a nose, and a mouth
 
    I think I was born with a heart mutation. The palpitating wad of meat, so apologetic. You could crack open my sternum, hoping to find a pearl, but unfortunately for you, all you’ll find is sorry notes I had slipped under my parents' door. They would fly out of my chest like doves, gentle and innocent, probably looking for reassurance. However, they made a mess, and I'm sorry. I promise I'll clean it up. 

-Malfunction of Some Sort (1/10/26 4:35 pm)



    If lying face down in the cold wet grass is the closest I can get to you, then let me whisper to the ants. I’m sure they’ll tell you how much I miss you.

-I Can’t Remember the Sound of Your Voice (1/28/26 11:18 pm) 



    I’ve never felt pain so aggressive until I saw how your body fit into an urn, like a sick ouroboros returning you to a womb. I listened to my unserious, anger-ridden family talk about your life. I kind of hoped I was on one of those pranks shows and someone would pretend to be the ghost of my dead grandpa. Unfortunately, the closest thing I got was a joke jabbed towards me in the second row from my uncle. He went on about the family anger and of course I was brought up because I’m pretty sure everyone inside that tiny funeral home thought I’d pull a gun from beneath my dress if they said, “I'm sorry for your loss” one more time. 
-Funeral Home Rage (5/25/26 3:07 pm) 

 Grace Clawson


Savannah, GA
graceclawson@gmail.com