Concave Confessions: A Brother's Myrrh

An image of a candle in darkness, with several moths crowded around it, attracted to its light.

when a gale storm yanked my body

& gave each stretchmark a name

strong enough to penetrate my nightmares

we would understand this sentence later.

the echoes here aren't soundproof.

I know its smell like a graveyard,

with all its coffin cough,

dust in porcelain, concealed like secrets

and funny vultures with their own potential butcher's lifestyle.

yesterday life disarmed my blinds to scrape off a rust that smells like calm.

my nose wrenches my mother's numbness in every puff.

so I spam the uninvited part of myself on the walls, and in


and worlds like this, lay down a body in midnight sobs.


my brother wrote his body in a country and painted it with his own


the yellowish color increases in my complexion, my temperature and my sugar level


imagery: a butterfly kisses a live candle & melts

into oil paint — an artist's brush reenacts the faces of her lament

I run to hear its drops again.

it turned out that he was selling the genre for him.

dies intermittently and wants to blame his body.

I'll sink it in a basin to isolate the risk in it.

the name change starts with a bad habit,

then with a defect.

a broken color vowel of your mistakes.

a whirlwind separates my sink

and charges it to the bare floor.

so if we run out of numbers,

my brother still has a lot left of him

to make a living.


An image of Agwam Kessington, a person with short-croppsed hair and a beard looking directly into the camera and smiling. The photo is in black and white.

Agwam Kessington (he/him) is a budding writer and poet whose works are forthcoming in Mermaid Monthly, Corporeal, Celestite Poetry, Revolutionary Review, Cicada Lament, Pareidolia's Literary, and elsewhere. His twitter handle is @TheAgwam