By Gabrielle Congrave
inside this month of broken skin and bitten lips (while some shiver and i melt) you make me remember why the sky must grow dark, why my skin grows cold as one breath precedes another. i have learned the difference between sorrow and pure motion, between regret and the agony of wanting that snaps every blue flower and spits ice into the skies. there is no easy footing, no pleasant view. no moment where the heart softens, turning whores into honest women, and forgiving those silent aching sins. i remember a street lamp, a color that did not make sense, how each body found and claimed the other. i remember the taste of your teeth, a bloody sun sinking fast. and in the background (somewhere, quiet now) there is a heart repeating a secret over and over to itself.
Gabrielle Congrave is a writer, mother, yogini, feminist and former sex worker. She writes and publishes the zine When the Crash Meets Something Solid. She grew up in the northwoods but lived in Minneapolis and Vermont in her twenties. She is a BFA creative writing major/gender studies minor at BSU, and working on her 200-hour yoga teacher training at Yoga North in Duluth.