- title: this is currently untitled
- bio: i'm karas. i'm from west philly. i write.
- name: karas lamb
- shouts to those who matter most; the writers and the words.

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inertia wears pink for u


my baby

my

babymy

baby


pink for u

pink for u

pink for uterus

pink for innocence

using us

using u

to cover itself


guilt hides in ur underwear

wearing pasteled anguish

immaculate murder scenes


pristine nightmares we dream

she dreams

to make believe that nothing's happened

there

guilt hides in her underwear

wearing rusted tears

and blood

and

punctured sails

like blue and white thursday

two sundays after

when prayers have come and gone

when monday comes and comes and comes

and

she bleeds

and

prayers have turned to laughter


laughter from the mouths of babes

wearing manic verve on severed feet

severed feet that walk in movements

composed to the verses

on their grave markers

beautiful curses

stitched into booties before mournings and sunrises meet

in sandbox

at playground

on corner

of

suicide and sesame streets


she is my kismet

she walks to me with eyes that glitter with the soul i used to wear in summer

the soul crocheted for me on my mother's mother's . . . . . . wood splintered porches and soft laps where hardened hands tell the tales of grandmothers.

she comes to me

pleading

the heart on her sleeve is bleeding

little girl

littlegirlittle

girl


i can taste what it is

u've been feeling

as i sup from the wound in my side

that isn't good at healing

littlegirlittle

girleavingliving

forthelivesofthighsandstrongerhighswhile

eyesandHERinside

madeloveto

. . . . dying

littlegirleavingliving

forthelyingloathinglacembroidered

looksofmother

who

justwon'treach

she's . . . . . . . justoppedtryingto

love



her


littlegirlookstomewith

eyes inviting.


she sits with me because her

mother's prone to walking

often

i'm new to mothering

the lives of orphans

just reading them

as work goes on and . . . . .


she says her name

recites her stories

fairies

loosies, whips, and morning . . . . .

sons

corner stores she's saved

from wars and

gone to school in

glitter rings

when all she wears is dirty jeans

and joy's a word

not something for her


"my name is caroline"

so much smaller

but her

spirit

rivals what i've left to offer

jealous of the innocence she

hasn't learned is taken.

my time is taken

trying to breathe some hope

from silly faces

that she's making

trying to save myself from wasting



pandora lives inside my bag

caroline is not afraid to call her

out to play

the incubus she holds to

tightly while in slumber

dressed in pink

and dressed in pink and

dressed in wings where

i've seen her wonders wander


she watches while i

tag my name in dark blue marker

next to me.

closer to.

"i can make three different kinds"

oh yeah?!?! let me see u . . .


caroline drew stars on my bag

i wonder if she'll still carry her

dreams around with her

now that i do