
Womb – A Poem
“Do not mistake our places of creation for your labyrinths of ways to escape yourself”
“Do not mistake our places of creation for your labyrinths of ways to escape yourself”
“Forests’ strong intuition, coupled with her poetic dialogue is both unique and charming… She relates easily to others just as others will relate to Forest in her most recent book of poetry and prose – under the callous. It is beautifully written, raw, and deeply real. It will absolutely leave you open-hearted and wanting for more.” – Olivia Chelsea
A journal entry / 430AM / Bathroom Floor Is this what I get? Is this what I give? Is tender …
Finger the fear out of me, I’m longing for your ease.
Of how I hold you to be the person you were when you asked me to make that promise when I become the person who broke it.
I want to be touched with good intention, trying too hard to make you not want me. Not putting forth …
When you sneeze I am suddenly aware that beside me you are having a 10th of an orgasm, and that …
Summer legs that see more long grass and fence spokes than sun. More cool water stolen and sliding down shivering stomachs …
She thinks about strangers and the way they make her feel poetry without words, falling in love until her eyes …
You miss him. More than the first night, more than the second, more than the fourth. So much it hurts …
Sometimes it’s more that you’re missing the part of yourself that was taken when they left, rather than the thief …
It’s pathetic really. How all I can think of is how your hands felt on my neck, wondering how it …
You fuck her like your life source is running on low and leave her like you have somewhere to be. …
If you are the type of person who utters no when I ask to pick flowers from strangers gardens in …
You swear that if he stood in the West that’s where the sun would rise. Then you remember that you’re …
I wonder if it’s difficult for the sun to rise every morning, if he has a routine of coffee or …
It’s not that I want to die, it’s just that I would. To see your face one more time.
You miss him. At 11PM when he’s laying beside you and you wait too long after eating ice cream to …
This is not a love story. This is not a poem, or a novel, or a song. I don’t know …