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The city that never sleeps started to
become drowsy,
Those that could scurried away as the
Apple fell asleep.
Holding tightly to the knowledge it's
everyone's strife,
Will the world return to its old ways?
Causing a shortage of tissues.
Don’t ever mistake me again. My smile is not an invitation for baseless declarations. It is the black silk slip my mama made me wear, under my dress for church, so no one could see through to m
My eyes follow the green glow of his kitchen walls as I lay on the floor, The smell of his compost And our dying bouquets leaking Into my nostrils Like cigarette smoke hiding Behind a set of teeth.
Habiba Warren: When did you first start writing? Have you always known you wanted to be a writer? Michele Randall: I wrote really awful poetry as a kid—I think because I was trying to process my world