in theory

i didn’t cry about the breakup
instead, i mashed finality between my teeth,
tender skins of soft peas,
digested the remains reverently.
but every night i fell asleep, a skinned
animal, cold and alone
awakening in the same dirty pajamas, wounded.
but the sun still bled through those blinds like a threat
and the world demanded an answer
so i started speaking about myself in third person
she’ll open her petals in a few months,
backbending into newness like a professional
but today, she really wishes she had just fucking cried about it.

strega clare manning is a baltimore based poet that spends time playing with her two cats, toffee and oreo. when she’s not forcing those two to cuddle with her, she’s hanging out with her partner, attending yoga class, and writing. she’s been a poet for years, and loves talking about her writing process and mental health journey on her substack, stingingsentences.substack.com and instagram, @stregaclare.

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