I’m a new season—
a new color, and I won’t
ever say what shade;
and every time ‘reality’
turns real, I crater easier
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lessons in surrenderi.
She wished to be dressed in poetry
but she didn’t understand that
imagery fades and that metaphors
are too easily forgotten.
She asked why I didn’t utilize my
alliteration eyes—why I hid the tag
‘ hello my name is: writer ’
beneath San Francisco bays
and rotting ink grenades,
still in dead crusade.
I broke pencil shavings in
skybound veins, just to taste
and I bled like a sinner
for mere dreams of some redemption.
“I’m only a poet of capitulation”
If you're ever at the bottom of the sea...You cut me like a landscape, the kind with cresting hills, which rise into tsunamis.
You disturbed me in a bump; something, about a boy, who sings his heart in damper peddles. But it was I who sustained this love, one melody, of life and pain rolled into mornings of stage lights and an incessant itch to crawl into the dark. I never knew I could find another person so shackled by the past. (I’m relieved and strangled.)
I miss you in those Everest waves, wishing your eyes would ghost over me just once in a ripple of remembrance. I wish I could bend these hills down to be like her plains, so you could walk in me, and hum, and touch the leaves of trees and not worry about where your soles step next. I can be better, but I cannot be her… though you grow tired, you say, and irritated, you say. I don’t think you even know what you want.
But... these valley-winds feel lovely, and the sight from jagged peaks just may be worth the heartache.
sheepskinYour love smells like snow
in the deep of August, sucking
me like mosquitoes and you.
damn, you always had a talented
tongue, knowing just what to say
to roll me between your teeth and
keep me there; and I was hoping—
no, trusting— I’d not be crushed.
I should have known when
you raised your bones against me,
when you clattered your molars
together but never bothered hiding
the truth below your belt.
And a part of me says
I was in love with you.
Though I be oceansIf I push you away, do not leave, for I am probably in the chasm of a pain so wide, it swallows me in days. It’ll spit me out eventually, and dear I’m sorry if I hurt you, but I hope you’d be there to tie me down. I still do not know how to love without being broken and splintered in so many places, that I’d hope you’d be forgiving, despite the stakes I aim at us.
If I throw those broken ‘me’s at you, please lock them back inside of me… and know it was not you whom I was remembering. Know it was not the present I was lost in, but the past, and give me time to reinstall my gravity. I trust and love your prints, but my brain stumbles over fingers: They can be used as hooks, and I was a fish once before, but lord never again.
If I forget your touch within the memories of another, please sink your fingerprints into my lungs so I may breathe nothing but you and ‘now.’
If there comes a time when I forget the ‘now,’ plea
MotheatenIt's louder still
but you don't hear it
(and that has to be okay).
Darkness holds me close again -
so safe like warmth and
I am hypothermia
Then it gets louder.
My ribs overflow with moths
they devour all my light.
It is the fearful thunder
shooting down my arms,
too uncertain for one place.
It vibrates blood and scars
until my fingertips are earthquakes
cracking open famine soil, and
I curl them tightly -
control the fear.
Then it gets louder.
It starts small -
the little things -
stabbing away at the vitals
of what ifs and could bes...
it's always just the little things.
Pack-a-dayA diamond queen
smoking pack-a-day dreams
for 95 cents more than
zirconium-falls in slim nicotine
(but the cancer in ashtrays never
stops anyone from trying.)
There’s truth in gusts of sleep,
while I struggle in the
security of windbreaking
as heaven opens up to scream.
blujayHer spine is crumpling into origami cranes, left in jars beside a dreamer’s dresser (I childishly hope they stretch bone-wings to heights, little Icaruses, as they tempt the gods in flight).
I don’t wish to be nomads, wandering through the birdhouses of “if”s and “when she dies…” for I’ve been a gypsy of apology, ghosting through sterilized rooms and bed-feet, as much an apparition as Reapers; and because I could not see Them, I learned to say “goodbye.”
I do not wish to make my nests of broken bottles and her flattened dreams.
comets in my head againThere are bruises on my legs again.
Maybe I tried too hard for the stars - struck hemispheres of dreaming too big - while I count one, two, three, four, five shiners on my legs, ten lookers on each arm (your jointed peals of rage) and, probably, forty-four on my heart – though it’s not like I ever counted the number of times you beat me down, before.
It never did matter if I was enough for the 16 years - or for the Escitalopram - because I was never a star jumper that could trade in comets for the cratered, disfigured life of meteors.
There are bruises on my legs again, and I think I should stop dreaming.
Cancer has a smell.Old classics,
the half cup of
peppermint ice cream
sitting in your freezer
for weeks, and cat litter.
He won’t eat anymore,
but there are
piles and piles
of dirty dishes
sitting in the sink.
before your eyes.
You can wrap
your whole self
around his tiny bones
You can hold him
like he used to hold you
all those years ago.
And you are angry.
You try to find
You hate doctors,
and you hate
You have to force yourself
to stop crying,
This is the one person
who’s always had faith
He’s read every poem
and hoarded every award
you ever won.
You ignore statistics,
paints with firethe painter
paints with fire & drinks teacups full of galaxy
letting light shows pirouette on her fingertips.
she spoke to the darkness with a smoldering breath
and a calming candlelight.
and black fingernails traipsed across burnt piano keys,
hoping to grasp something without the familiar singeing
of flames and black smoke down her throat.
she shot for stars instead of targetsdo you ever look down,
at your empty palms?
you were right?
waiting for someone to say,
"you did good,
even though you are not
certain you are
a kid anymore?
how lifeless are your
you have raised your
little one and
shut the door on their
wishing they will come back.
but what if
the galaxy is bigger
than any bird's nest you find,
because she holds so many
of her children,
as if she will be able to
swallow them whole.
the galaxy is not your home.
your chest is just as empty
as your arms.
your rib cage broken, scattered bones;
as if you delved your hands
inside and crushed your own
the ocean is calling.
My chest bumps like a drier with shoes in itlately i've come to feel
like a leap of days that didn't happen
nor had the right to exist,
in the first place.
i can’t help the diffraction of my
veins straining against
the sticky membrane of my skin;
as though they are trying
to reach the sky,
they splinter and groan
under the graceless movements
of my limbs.
i search for cracks beneath
prodding and poking
trying to dissect myself with the
precision of shaky hands numbed
by alcohol and one too many painkillers;
i am the surgeon of my own disaster
attempting to reassemble
those caved in xylems.
i tried desperately to
resurrect those broken stems
i gave them a transfusion with my
and offered up my own
trachea to try and let them breathe;
but i suppose some things,
much like people,
refuse to be
perhaps the dead should
To Wildflower TombstonesForgive; that of who bore us and
made our branches
equipped for burning
back into bones.
Forgive that of who let us decompose.
Graveyards give way to roots give way to
wombs and dandelions bloom.
Lotus extractshe is small, huddled between
scraps of sky: the vulnerable;
a horizon-born thing.
patient through the laboring womb
when night ensues, tapping stars awake
one by one. a dawn-swimmer. a sleepless bud
unfurling in the birth of morning.
somewhere in-between an apparatus,
melting frost from pitiful bones; opening
marrows to pollinators and spring
small talk Iwe adorn ourselves with
"velvet" and "silk" (polyester).
try to catch the eyes of onlookers
as we stand, stranded at our
street corner islands.
we think—how much more appealing
we must be, sculpting our eyebrows into
perpetually curious glances, and
dispelling unique theories copied from
entry-level philosophy text books.
snowfall in a paperweighti bought a crystal ball today
and it’s like looking through
stained glass windows for lessons
in weather forecasts.
i think that i could start to
smoke and make my insides
look the same as they feel when
it is overcast.
or let the embers slowly
burn between my fingers
until i have left behind
and maybe it doesn't matter
and i will
crystal ball and make fragments
Sleep Well My AngelI didn’t become a mother when I saw the two pink lines,
But something changed.
What I had suspected for weeks was true,
& in a moment of fear, I realized my life was forever changed.
I didn’t become a mother when I saw you on the ultrasound for the first time,
But something changed.
I saw you wiggling around, only about the size of a peanut,
& I fell in love.
That was the first time I realized how much I wanted you,
You were mine, and that was never going to change.
I didn’t become a mother when I felt your first kick,
But something changed.
You wiggled and kicked me at least a dozen times that first night,
I was completely enchanted & I fell a little deeper in love.
I didn’t become a mother when the doctor showed me that you were a boy,
But something changed.
I was so surprised; I had sworn you were a girl,
But I was wrong,
But then again, everything about you was unexpected.
I didn’t become a mother when I started getting stretch marks,
But something cha
I feel like I can't write anymore. Found this... felt like if I didn't try, I would lose my words.
and I feel like I can't help Them without changing my identity. But I won't ever tell.
(I can't keep track of myself).
(it's not any one of you, rest assured. )
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