My name is Phoebe.

8.

I invite the whale that ate my mother
to my party. I build a birthday cake
our of wet black sand.

The whole night is a crab that crawls
across my cold feet and then scurries away.

Later, I get a card in the mail that says Sorry.
Sorry about everything.

Every year I pretend
I’m not the one who sent it.

— From “The Whale” by Zachary Schomburg (via prettierinthedark)

(via jaimemurraysboobs)



##################################################### #####################################################