a complete work in progress

When I scribble notes on scrap paper, it’s in English. Birthday cards 
 in Spanish. Anger scalds my palms when I find its hiding place, 
 sometimes it’ll burst from my chest before I get a chance 
 to shove it under my bed. Despair finds me in...

Fisherman and His Dog

it is july and i am sick again. sun is an exploded ballpoint pen bleeding across my skin. heat hovering above my hair; flies on a corpse. i am pale, lightheaded, room spins and i sway like the good dance partner i am. fast food burger pressed into my

the last summer

I can’t see any of the stars, even when I stand on my tippy-toes and squint at the sky. Through the woods, the faint sound of music echoes against the trees. “What are you doing?” It’s Tate, slightly amused. "I’m looking for the stars..

HAGS

That’s the thing about love: it feels like a new poem to write every time. Knocks at my dorm room
door, staying up to see the ways the moon changes. As if we can’t recognize the phases. If this is me
wasting away: call me a dumpster fire. A wasteland

Nia Mahmud

Books

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