By Lindsay Bell

Sunday morning

We wake to the birds chirping an

Overture to honesty,

A night spent with

Thumbs tracing,

Hands embracing

Walking our thread

spun by fate

Hoping we reach the end before

Atropos and her shears

Bring us

to our knees.

 

You call me a gateway drug

Over morning chamomile tea

And I can’t tell if I’m hungover

Or if the fog outside

Is just a mirror

Of the haze you weave

Inside my mind

 

Lindsay Bell is a writer, musician, and educator based out of St. Paul. When she’s not writing, she’s usually reading someone else’s writing, playing with her calico cat, Freyja, or running late. With her words, Lindsay hopes to form solidarity with women who are doing their best to get through this thing called life.

 

Photo by Annie Spratt