Shadowing your doorstep, travel heavy with grime
I snorkel through your five-year whiteware plan
surrogating my mother issues 
among hand-curated rooms of domesticity 
and to be truly honest,
I couldn’t carry all of that.
Besides, I heard them say in a movie once,
‍Love hurts, but aren’t we already hurting?
‍Well, that resounded as if I’d stuck my head 
in a washing machine drum 
then, hit it with a chisel.
Unbalanced, I desire no more laden weight 
as all that is not mine presses 
puncturing my lifeline.

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Published 5th November, 2024.

Willow Noir, lives in South Taranaki, NZ, where she figures out the convolutions of her mind through poetry and paper collage to the rhythm of her crochet hooks. She has work published online in Tarot, NZ, and in the Poetry Aotearoa Yearbook 2024.