By Pluto Mehan

love is

sunsets at quiet fields, snow angels in uncut grass,
honeydew droplets on the back of sweat-stained shirts as you outstretch those
hands and i think these are the hands that drive me
insane, though the lines foretell that unhinged yearning is
not currency enough to purchase anything. & love is

every unsaid syllable, heavy on my tongues as we swallow
the blood in our mouth. we are young, and we know
long division, and distillation, and that boys who love
freely are boys who end
up dead. & love is

Inching, with our hands and tongues tied, for
the things we cannot reach, because we are young
and we are sinners, and i have only ever been
what you make of me, and you have only ever been

Pluto Mehan discovered her love for writing when she was five and could only find coherence in thought by putting them down on paper, and later discovered her love for poetry when she realised there was no need for this coherence in the first place. She likes to write about love and (un)belonging.


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