Akirah is a bi-racial queer teenager who lives in sunny Northern California with three dogs and a big family. They enjoy reading and writing fiction and prose poetry and have attended California State Summer School of the Arts for creative writing in the summer of 2016. You can reach them on Twitter (dipbrow) and Instagram (kirahstagram).
2 poems by Akirah Williams
i am scared of the feeling coming back
like i've swallowed too many cough drops to my brain
i'm scared that when it starts it would be too hard to stop
how do i feel genuine again how do i stop eggshell steps from carving tracks into the carpet in that same pattern in that same pattern in that same pattern
(i don't think i'm scared of spiders in my hair anymore)
it's the numbness that sits in the back of my throat that made me swallow 30 pills
the numbness made me realize that i was a seashell on a desolate beach; empty and useless like my mother's forehead kisses that ghosted over my skin or that puppet pull of the lips
when i would tell myself
let them see you genuine, even when the goblins have already munched away your flesh.
loo was affectionate and quiet, a mass of close lipped afternoons and nights
he occasionally sat in the tail bed of bucket’s broken down truck, stray sand carving homes to the buzz of his green hair, deeply set and lidded eyes looking of salt water
the first time i met him, he wore a cotton jacket that swallowed him like moth wings
boisterous curling tongue around the gold chocolate coin wrapper shimmering caught under the slightest peak of cold stars.