this essence has been boiled down to the nearest nothing
and deep down, it feels familiar—

a bird too grown to only now learn to fly,
its wingtips creased the wrong way,
nearly featherless, and weak.
nowhere to go but down
and even then,
impact doesn't promise
resolution.

a poem with too few metaphors,
too much “telling”— we get the point
but SHOW us—
as if listless anger and sadness
it's just a clear-cut visual,
crystalline in memory against all odds.

this essence had been boiled down to the nearest nothing
and deep down, it feels misunderstood.

i am so deeply unsatisfied in my life
and too mired in my failings
to appreciate imagery and sound.
something reached deep in me,
scooped color from my innards,
and left me to rot.
living for spite is dreadfully boring.

the truth chained itself and,
grimacing, he followed.
each star he eyed blew past,
one by one, and perched
themselves within him.
he picked, prodded, pleaded,
sleep smudging the night's corpse,
and optimism left him.

bit by bit, he read her heart
and lost it in translation.
her energy was effervescent,
and warm. inconsistent.
--
her energy was eclectic-- fierce,
and her words: silken, undisturbed
--
he lost himself in her songs,
the playlists of past hurts, wants, haves-
and happiness. rhapsodic
--
pain is a telegraph,
a tactile sensation that sounds off,
telling stories of past mistakes.

night and day— a unison
in serene dawn,
entwined in hope,
lust, fun.

then flecks and flashes of flesh
and light snare souls
with optimism
and choke with reality.

until night and day, crossed
at the harshest bit of twilight,
are dead.

without the burden of expectation,
i flourish the way i’ve always wanted.
i have planted a seed of loving myself
and doing it so ******* fiercely
that it can’t be denied, and it blooms.
regret, fear, and uncertainty have burned
away and their ashes nurture this new soil.
i will tend this garden in myself
and speak crystal clear and loudly proclaim
that i am worth loving and i do it boldly.

i'm tired of being boiled down
to my barest, simplest parts,
and compromised beyond my core.

my facets ignored as if repugnant
or strange--
as if all i can ever be is what portait
painted itself.

to yell into an unyielding void
and be met with a stiff and resounding silence.
to be so resounding unheard despite
sheer and shrieking volume.

to exist in a space where metaphor scarcely follows for fear that truth will dilute it.

what importance did it ever hold?

it was all a cry.

and no one heard.

i have resolved
to let these moments stab me,
teach me, by reaching my core
and harming me.
it will carve me into something
daring and emboldened;
perhaps i will be smelted,
reforged--
still stronger all the same,
especially without you.

Emeralds and diamonds,
Affairs of State.
We didn’t build our bridges
simply to avoid walking
on water.
A bridge is a meeting place.
Neutral, casual.
A bridge is a possibility,
a metaphor of chances.
For the traffix in whispered
goods, where else but a bridge
in the night?
A philosophical people,
conversant with greed and desire,
holding hands with the Devil and God.
This living bridge is tempting,
you may lose your soul
or find it here.

*an erasure poem

pin-pricked, the deep drip
spelled cacophony,
mired in chaos.
the human brand
of serially unkind
contradictions.
relatable

and distant.
far too nebulous
to satisfy your craving
after a long day of wanting.
those words silk-spilled
into some odd pile,
creation adjacent to intent,
and skewed from some cliff
hoping for release.

I'm making a choice: you.

when i say i love you,
it's a promise that my heart is yours
in as many or as few pieces as you need.

when i say i love you,
i mean that words don't capture
the nuance of feeling peace in your smile,
charmed by your eyes, and lusting to contain
your entire wonder in a hug.

when i say i love you,
i want the answer to be, "no ****,"
because i want the world to recognize
your value.

when i say i love you,
i want you and mean it.

i love you.

Light in Latin is lumen--
It has many meanings,
the word, the idea.
Something or someone bright,
that brings clarity, clearness,
understanding.
Is it possible for people
to be lumen,
for others? I say yes.
Yes, because
my magistra taught
me that, through enthusiasm
and a language others thought to be dead.

none if it was supposed to happen,
no wine spilling
from whosever glass heart
would hold it.
mine shattered, and it poured profusely,
condescension and hatred,
in good measure.

the lies were supposed to rest
on an old, dusty shelf
with books you no longer read,
forlorn, while warmer things
filled your heart.
only now that it's gone,
do you believe yourself the victim,
and pretend to care.
from what remains, no love of any kind
will ever echo for you again.

have you ever felt a friendship die,
gasping for its last breath between scattered texts and awkward compliments?
each wincing inhale a deliberate pause
to find the words you force
yourself to want.
you may need each other but the knife
between the ribs didn’t.
time won’t heal what’s already dead
but the memory of it may be beautiful
and kind like ocean air before your lips
are parched, a firm kiss you want to linger (and does), a lightning bolt against the ****** that reminds you of their warmth.

why artists wrestle with a million thoughts
that aren’t original,
that still still seem fresh,
when this life is universal.
when we aren’t honest with ourselves
and the introspection kills us more
and more each time.
some stupid innate desire to do
and be better,
hindered by the rest of who we are.
even this is a cheap imitation of others
who’ve felt the same.
and the anger and lack of clarity consumes me.
i was always taught to show, not tell,
but words elude me when emotions don’t.
i may be a bad writer, but never say
I’m not passionate.

Too many poems have rough starts to grip you but lack the heart to keep you. Each is a piece of someone’s soul. The cliché holds steady and you’ll contemplate it, but who gives a ****?

What we gather from them can’t quantify the sacrifice of being honest to strangers who’ll focus too heavily on your syntax, your line breaks, your cadence.

All the same, it matters. We choose to struggle, share, overcome, and it’s deeply un-unique— yet we always find a way to make it ours.

I want this medium to reflect what I’ve always been: present, flexible, deeply sad.

Maybe one day we’ll finish a sentence without pausing first to see who’s listening.

you speak like glasswork--
hot, measured, and fragile.
empty promises and murky
depths, opacity that chills
and stuns.

you speak of love
as if you know it,
but you've never let it greet you
at your door.
it knocks and you freeze,
pretend it's a stranger,
though you knew its name before it did.

you've stolen more
than you can ever repay,
and brevity in stillness still stings.

you will do well
without your opaque glass
and brittle words,
but I can't promise the same.

corridor
metallic
humming
internal
buzzing
askew
ghosted
in return
metallic again
*****
pricked
prone
assailed
memory
conclusive
pennies
dist­ance
blood
change

there’s solace in syllables,
humming as you write them,
their slight vibrations signal warmth.

fondness gives it life
and, in turn, is mountainous
in splendor.

this might be what love is.

our hearts were full and spilled
onto each other and then this page,
radiance in tandem with love and fear.

if i am the sun, you are mi bella luna pequeña--
you reflect the brightest parts of me,
and our darkness is the same.

you are the automaton at the center
of my youth and health and life.

seamless seamoss green and blue,
tundra indifferent and speckled.
cascading across my heart, mind, soul;
the entirety of my reality.
essence coiled tightly in preparation,
I flinch. it is filled with an energy
that I am not intimate with but the two
that wield it teach me separately.
how to see and be seen, how to love
and be loved, how to listen and be heard.
to **** and be beckoned back to where you began, love in-hand, heart appeased,
and content.