I'm not sure if you care about people reposting your work here, but tumblr user kennakittymeow just reposted your poem 'Home' (post/100465963346/do-not-make-homes-out-of-people-this-will)

Yes yes yes, thank you so much my darling.

kennakittymeow:

Do not make
homes
out of people.
This will leave you
homesick
and sad,
missing arms that
cannot hold
roofs,
hearts with
shaky foundations.

Nope, this is mine.

I’ve survived
a lot
the most
miraculous
being
myself.

Michelle K., Only Some People Will Understand.

45,000+ people give a fuck about what I write.

That shit cray.

You will look back
in a couple of
weeks
months
years
and realize
fear overtook your heart,
to which you
gave in.
Do not treat
your white flag like a victory march,
I stood my ground,
I left when I needed to.
You were a child touching love
that ran away
when he felt the burn.
I have always
been the
fire.

Michelle K., I Have Always Been the Fire.

Recovery
is not simply the apologies
to yourself,
but also the
decision to give
forgiveness.
Hatred of the self
is exhausting.
It is
time
for you to rest.

Michelle K., What Recovery Means To Me.

He tells me to
open
my mind
through closed lips.
His sheets
slip like sand
through my fingers.
I have carved my name
into his heart,
he has built his fences
around mine.

Was it love?
The stars have
yet
to answer,
but his tongue never
tasted like
forever.

Was it love?
Do not name scar tissue
after men
who are far less
permanent.

Michelle K., Was It Love?

Added a new collection for my older poems

On the cliff of the mountain
we sit
we stand.
On the cliff of the mountain
we pray
to gods
who do not know
our names.
On the cliff of the mountain
I think about
making beds
in its shadow.
On the cliff of the mountain
I am always
learning
to back away.

Michelle K., Written June 7, 2010

This body,
how it grows
without my permissions.
Void of stars,
eternal sun.
Expansion.
I stand next to trees
to feel small.
I stand on hills
to feel large.
Size is our substance.
Size is our prayer.
Size is just a number.
Oh,
how cracked lips
sing the loudest.
Oh,
how pointed fingers
break the easiest.

Michelle K., Written July 24, 2009.