each day a new act of war
headlines my breaking news
notifications so i marry do not disturb
because i feel myself becoming numb

calluses grow over raw flesh
as i perceive each tragedy

i try to weave
the ribbons of myself
back into a wholeness
that can still hold empathy

cupped hands sip water
i know is polluted, but it is better
than dying of thirst
flesh wasn’t made to witness
abject horror day after day

but i lose track of pieces of me
my frayed edges fly off
like wispy dandelion seeds
on the wind—they float away
take my softness with them
and leave me plucked, emptied, desiccated
in dry earth

i keep wondering if the romans
felt overstimulated as their empire fell

did the dust of the tower’s collapse
scar their lungs? did their skin feel
too tight? and when it became
too much, did they flay
themselves open or cleave
themselves in two?

kayla (she/her) is a queer autistic writer with deep roots in Appalachia’s central highlands. In her poetry, Kayla explores those things which make and unmake us in an unabashed and visceral way. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Tennessee Voices, Writerly Magazine, and the Stories of the Seasons Zine, and her debut collection, The Stuff of Stars, will be published in 2026. Website