𝔲𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔭𝔬𝔢𝔪𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔱𝔬𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔭𝔥𝔰

Madison Nash

7.19.23

I used to send you postcards to your home...then to your mothers.
Everywhere id go i would pick up a 4x6 souvenir paper
And write to the address I memorized.
I dont send you postcards anymore. I save them in a box to send
to no one. Maybe i never sent them to anyone. You never wrote me
back .
I think i wrote the mailbox.
i dont have your address now but i still think about the
postcards i’d send you if i did. I hope you loved my california
mail because im moving somewhere colder where the sun dont
always shine.
I wonder if you feel a difference in the mailbox now that my
cards have gone.My postcard box grows as time passes into years
since i left that fall.
I save my blank postcards and you keep my sent postcards.
I think in this way we are even.

.23

With your male form dying I released you. Nameless.
Ill see you within my dreams, red candles and shattered glass.
When i fear asleep.
Maybe i was not as broken as the other girls you catalogued and
mirrored. My green panties resting so elegant on your frame. I
am your lesbian lover in another lifetime.

1.17.24

I fear constantly that I am to fall through the floorboards of
my apartment. replications of witchery on the television.
old wrinkled hags hunched over a brew, converting the pious monk
into a lover.
I was developing ghosts in the bathroom perfectly shrouding a
face; hand remaining. life is mere magic. why would it be any
different in the case of a wayward film negative.
I had a thought earlier that life was fleeting.
It becomes most fearful when I am wanting.

7.13.24

Sleep paralysis in certains bed. I am in a nightmare located
interior of an art gallery.
We cant have sex like normal people. its always four hours long.
Two freaks.
When you die there's nothing. its all darkness. i whisper over
her body, eye contact. Brevity.
I left all of my rings on the nightstand and turned the car
around for one more glance.
Eyes wide open.
A shared fear.
A girl like me can never have an easy goodbye.

7.30.24

A looming postcard never sent to its destination.
It was arrived in my own mailbox. A sign it shouldn't have been
mailed out — surely realized during its second attempt at
deliverance. I stole a stamp from the business and lost words on
the concrete.
Words i never said or sent
I am Saved by the post office or the sidewalk
Where my shame can be carried away in the wind.
Youve said to me before that i know where to find you.
Only if you want me to.

madison is a photographer, writer, musician, maker from atlanta, ga haphazardly existing in brooklyn, ny. 

she lives from her dreams – and nightmares writing to fill leather spiral bound journals engraved on the front with the single word ‘journal.' it's mostly roses. sometimes thorns.

madisonmarienash.com

@madmaxx1e