grow by the author

a poem

today, i did not die from despair.
did not wallow in my tears.
instead, i crafted life from a
single smile and a crooked tooth.
fed a village with my words.
consumed only afternoon light and
the loud purr of an ungrateful kitten.

today, a movie watched me…

safe by the author

a prose

my gratitude looks like thanking the hairs i find on my pillow for once being a part of you. like embracing the pain from a newly formed callus found only on the middle finger of my writing hand after i grip the hard plastic of a pen. like…

vista by the author

a prose

i love you so much it burns. not just in my chest but in my throat. i always try to fill myself up with so much of you that i almost forget myself. i long to swallow you whole and intertwine my being with yours. i imagine dropping…

unwary by the author

a poem

i think i make shelter
inside of myself for
people who are
building family homes
in someone else’s sunrise.
i am just the summer home.

i think i am pubic hair
shamed and stretch
marks glorified.

i think i hate all of this.
every inch of this.
every word.
every wasted…

cornered by the author

a prose

when they ask if i still think of you, i tell half-truths and whole lies. i do tell them about my hoarding of your things, but i don’t call them your things. i call them ours. like the pajamas we wore during our last devouring. or the disney…

Zaria Rashay

(She/her) is a black biaceflux writer whose work revolves around living with one’s trauma and mental illness in a black queer body. Instagram @ ZariaRashay

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