Keah Brown

Keah Brown is a reader not a fighter. She is a lover and a writer. She has a BA in Journalism from The State University of New York at Fredonia. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Catapult, Lenny Letter, The Establishmentand ESPNW among other publications. She loves TV and tweets about cheesecake and how she should be writing (@Keah_Maria)




Bad Bones


I am not dead

but my bones are breaking.

I used to fantasize about the process

breaking to regenerate anew

these bones were brittle

when my mother ordered them out of a magazine

and told me I was beautiful anyway


what’s anyway?


sometimes my bones feel like

they’re dancing in my skin

off beat & out of tune

when we move there isn’t room for freedom

just a reminder that we’re tired


these bones have been broken before

by white coats with good intentions

and I’ve woken up in the same mind each time

I don’t know what to tell the child

who thought she’d wake up happy


Are bad bones the broken ones?

are the broken ones so bad

when the nerves dance on their own

the blood draining softly from bent fingertips

I knew how to tell their stories once





There’s a half empty glass of coke on the kitchen table

Sunday dinner is done

I am twelve again

tucked in the corner on a green couch in the living room

I haven’t lost her yet

I am unaware that I ever will

she flips through channels

tapping her foot to a song in her head

I sing along anyway


as I am now, I stand by the door

and I wish to warn me of what we will lose

but I watch instead

as a small smile starts

at the corners of the mouth

of twelve year old me

I let her have this moment

because she is happiest here

I let her have this moment

because there won’t be many more.

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