Oya leaves a new poem here every day. Beneath where the pictures used to hang, in the ash of obliterated art. If the wind and rain don’t wash the old ones away, a single brush of her boot does the rest.
She doesn’t mind that no one sees her words. The ephemerality of it all is the point. No-one suspects a thing.
1. Written between the 7th and the 10th of May, 2021__________patreon or my ko-fi. Patreon subscribers get not just early access to content and also the occasional gift, but also my eternal gratitude. Which I'm not sure is very useful, but is certainly very real.(Ko-fi contributors probably only get the gratitude I'm afraid, but please get in touch if you want more). Thank you!