Poems by Leon P

Rustling of a plastic bag

Golden envelopes

A mustard turtle neck that you don't own

I don't know what to do within this minute

Do I leave? Or do I stay until my message has been received.

It's been six months since I last had a suicidal thought.

Six months since calling the hotlines.

Suffering in bed.

In meditation I let go of the shadows of our past.

I was on an island. The air thick with fog, the water murky and black.

They emerged out of the water, dripping in black malice.

I observed, until it was time for me to leave.

I cupped their face, the malice dripping onto my hands.

The tears dripping from my face.