by Kristin Ryan
Everything was sharp. Colors and sounds, jutting of bone through the tug of chaos in her chest.
Everything was falling. Hair from her scalp, bruised knee caps in front of toilets, apple and blood into the bowl.
Everything was heavy. Shadows on the bedroom wall, heart pressing into ribcage, the weight of a child’s lie.
Kristin Ryan is a poet working towards healing, and full sleeves of tattoos. She is a recipient of the Nancy D. Hargrove Editor's Prize in Poetry, was listed as a Write Bloody Finalist, and has been nominated for Best New Poets. Her poems have been featured in Glass, Jabberwock Review, Milk and Beans, among others. She holds an MFA from Ashland University and works in the mental health field. She tweets @kristinwrites