your hebenon heart with blood of black ink
of loxotic lies and twisted truths sink
deep in your body you make yourself home
seep in your poison to blood and to bone
make yourself see the truth you believe
not the truth that truly would be.


― a mirage of your own manipulation

and so today i drew open the curtains of my ribcage and i brushed the dust off my heart and i forgave you.

— an excerpt from a letter to you

rain against the rooftop,
an old melody in my head,
and a bittersweet taste against my tongue.
early may’s rain falls quick and soft
to april’s soft flower bed,
and steals away the setting sun.

it is with quick resolve
and soft delay
that i sit here,
overcast,
alone today.


— a night in may

i have been burning my whole life.
encased in immaculate flames,
flying too close to the sun
on these fragile wax wings.

— an image of icarus

i am so tired
of breaking my own heart
over misconstrued manipulations
of the english language.

— a paranoid poet

i awoke
to the piercing sound
of an alert,
a change of weather
in the sky.
severe thunderstorms,
warnings scattered,
rain throughout the night.
it's 3am
and the rain has not yet
begun to pour,
but i think i'll stay up
just a little bit longer,
just to hear the thunderstorm.


— april showers

you claim you've changed,
and maybe that's true,
but not where it matters,
not where it's due.

— a snake can shed its skin too

when roses rooted in your heart,
you let their beauty grow.
but in the beauty of their blood red petals,
you forgot about their thorns.

— beware what lies beneath the beauty

between numb and nothing,
i was somewhere in between.
where you felt lonely,
i felt relief.

— we had two very different endings

fists clenched with white knuckled force,
my nails pierce this skin and
blood trickles down fingers from these
perforated palms, and i can’t help
but to think how this pain
is nothing but a distraction.

— biting your tongue to stop the tears only goes so far

we all have shadows, for you see a shadow cannot exist on its own, it cannot live without a source to feed. so it attaches to those bright and full of love and it steals through toxic tongue and tainted touch every inch of light and every ounce of love it can, and it eats and it eats and it eats.

and it never ends.

the cycle goes on for years, for days, for weeks. sometimes one attachment is not enough to satisfy its hunger, and the shadow finds another, sneaking behind backs and through unlit back streets, slipping beneath bodies under messy white sheets.

until it finds what it needs.

it eats to feed an unsatisfiable hunger that’s seeded deep in its very soul. you see, a shadow is utterly empty. a shell of those around them cast upon pre-fixed forms, void of kindness and empathy, full of lies and false sympathy. only fictitious constructions of conned complex personality.

you may be convinced at first, you see, shadows are very well-versed with words, their honey-dipped hells and counterfeit kindness are nearly believable and you might even feel warmth for awhile. but shadows love to play tricks, manipulate your mind and play mischief on your eyes. dancing in the dark of the night in the darkest of hours, when the false is most easily believed, it’s not until daylight often we see the falsity revealed that we’ve been forced to perceive. turning pain into poetic verse, a shadow will twist and contort even the sweetest of words into a sweet mirage of manipulation to force you to see the lie they’ve created in the image of innocence.

they’ll feed off your good of heart and affection so sweet, and drink from the pools of light that you seep. and they’ll eat and they’ll eat and they’ll eat, until there’s nothing left and you’re completely empty. they’ll drain your soul and drop your heart and move on to the next, but keep your name for later use. because when love grows back and you feel full once more, a shadow will return again to reclaim its host and restart this game it’s since provoked. but then a shadow will slither and slip away, retreating to cobweb corners and feigning false pain, always finding someone else― you ―to blame.
but a shadow will never admit to its own darkness, for it’s convinced it’s awash in light, the epitome of kindness and love, that it could never be anything but the victim.

but it’s afraid.

because it knows if it takes one real look at who they are and what they’ve done, their self-conceived, perfect being will wither away and melt to no one.


― calling you a ghost would be wrong, for you see, even ghosts eventually go away.

and when you complain
about the bite you receive
do not forget
who sharpened these teeth.

— you taught this dog to bite

she'll convince you it was your bark not her bite, even when she holds your ****** body in her maw.
​
— don't believe the beast

i have died a thousand times
of a thousand cuts
of a thousand broken hearts.

— but tonight i experience death for the first time
​

i am in love with the ocean,
and while he is beautiful and strong,
he is turning my heart into a cliff.
eroding me away,
bit by bit.

— i'm afraid soon there will be nothing left
​

my eyes are not blue,
they do not wash away your worries
in their soft ocean hue.

my eyes are dark brown,
and they carry the weight of the world
in their harsh earthy tone.


— heavy is the cost

the villainy you teach me i will execute—
after all,
the devil has his miracles too.

—and i am no saint

i am shattering like glass
as everything around me slips away
reality fragmenting, i reach to grab shards
sharp enough to slit my own wrists

i return to tendencies of self destruction
like returning to an abusive ex
because even when things are bad
there is comfort in the familiarity pain.

— dis(comfort)

i am better now,
but sometimes there are still blisters where i once had calluses,
and bruises still deep in my bones,
so please be patient with me.


― i am still a work in progress

i do not speak like a poet.
my words are clumsy and callous
and i often trip over my own tongue.
there is no beauty to my words
or thought to my form,
and my voice does not fall soft and slow
like honey song, drizzled sweetly into willing ears.
rather it is raspy and quick-tongued,
laced with mispronounced words and oddly said accents.
my sentences race ragged and jumpy,
with capricious contours and half-finished phrases,
and i often lose my train of thought.
impulsive and unrefined,
i do not speak like a poet.

— but on paper i am a different person

silence fills the room once more,
sitting behind your locked door.
open your eyes, a notification rang.
you’ve fallen asleep with the tv on again.
distractions, noise to keep your mind away,
one more play,
one more play,
one more play.
are you still watching?
are you still there?
or have you again let your mind wander elsewhere.
change the subject, change the story,
write another allegory.
turn off the screen, lock the door,
it's time to fall asleep once more.


― i don’t know how to make things better

i exist in conveniences;
in habitual i love yous
and obligated i’m here for yous.
in calculated i cares
and loathsome i’ll listens.

i exist in conveniences:
i love you (when it’s convenient)
i’m here for you (when it’s convenient)


— i exist (when it’s convenient)

be angry,
be furious.
a storm of torrential rain and hellfire.
but when you’re done
and your seas have calmed,
come home.

— i'll be waiting by the docks

there is a book within my heart
of poems you've never seen
poems you've never read
poems you'll never read.
and from deep within my heart
with my pen of black ink
i hope that you might read them
and say that you still love me.


― i'm afraid not everything i write is pretty

my mouth is full of burning candles
and hot wax seeps from between my teeth.
my tongue knows nothing but rage and fire
and i don’t know whether to swallow this flame
and choke on the smoke until the heat burns holes in my throat,
or to spit it out
and watch everything around me burn down.

— impulse control

i like the rain.
the sound, the smell, the feeling against my skin.
its warm water seeps into my roots and and feeds my restless soul.
but it’s raining a bit too hard,
and my leaves are falling,
my flowers are wilting.
petrichor stains my stinging lips and fills my lassitude lungs.
there’s too much water.
rain turns to rivers and rivers turn to waves.
i’m afraid i’m drowning.


― i need a minute to breathe

even on the days we don’t speak,
i whisper i love you to the wind,
hoping it will be carried to you on the breeze.

— i never go a day without saying i love you

it came like midnight cold,
slowly through the cracks of unlocked doors.
it’s wasn’t until it spilled from my mouth
that i began to know;
this bitter black ink
seeping from between my teeth,
belonged to you,
and not to me.
without apology.

— i refuse to let your bitter black heart bleed into mine any longer

i stare into the mirror and tired eyes stare back. a broken smile, ink drops dripping from tilted teeth, licorice liquid pulsating through vaurien veins. i can hear the beating of my heart in my ears, echoes of once was, this is, and will be's. she whispers to me. who is it that holds this heart, is it you or is it me?

the mirror stares back into me and wicked tongues weep. what words do you say and what do they mean?  what does it matter with words you can’t keep. static stains this tabescent mind, ink drops dripping like spilled scarlet wine, whiskey words of whispered repeats. who is it that holds this heart, is it you or is it he?

i thought it would be easier this time
but it wasn’t,
it never is.
those last goodbyes,
that last kiss,
it never is,
it never is.

— saying goodbye never gets easier

i think i might disappear today,
take to the water and wind.
sink to the ocean and fade away
until i have become nothing.


— it’s quiet at the bottom of the sea

i've cut myself in places that hands could never reach, torn open scars in places that can never be touched. i've got a bad habit of searching for things that hurt me in places that are not easily healed, places where blood and bruises are intangible and bandages cannot stop the bleeding. so i bleed. i bleed and i hurt and i heal and i bleed again. a sort of cycle of self torture, these hebenon habits of the heart.


― it's time to break the cycle

i often find myself
wishing the rain would wash me away,
that a storm would shake my leaves
and rip up my roots,
and carry me along the waves.


― i've heard drowning is a peaceful way to die

you cannot silence my voice,
erase who i am and stand to be.
i will not be pushed to nonexistence,
for my story is not written in pencil,
it is written in ink.

― and i will leave my mark on history

i’m so in love with your sleep shrouded voice,
drowsy doused rasp and torpid tongued.
rest against me and whisper behind my ear―
i love you.


―lay with me a little bit longer

lips wrapped in regret,
the bitter taste of betrayal.
tipsy-tongued we tangled,
breaking all the rules at once.

— i asked if you’d remember when i should've asked if you'd regret

i don’t find myself writing love poetry as often anymore.
i wonder to myself;
is it because i have lost the words for which to describe you,
or have i lost you to the words?

— i don’t want to know the answer

she was war,
a collection of cuts and old scars,
armored in the pain of her past,
bones of ash and thorn.
blood like spilled scarlet wine
splashed across the bathroom floor,
she cried alone—
unseen,
unknown.
but for all the tears, she rose to her feet
and sat upon her barbwire throne
for these bones still ache,
this body still bleeds,
these lungs still breathe,
and this heart still beats,
still beats,
still beats.

— my heart is not a home for cowards

my heart hangs heavy this morning
and air escapes my lungs easier than it comes.
drowning in the silence
and the static of what you say,
i am alone today.


— nothing has changed

my past is part of who i am,
i cannot erase it.
it’s written in the books collected on the
bookshelves between my ribs,
stacked upon my spine.

the stories of who i am are carved into me,
scripted on my skin,
branded on my bone,
there is no part of me that is not built upon
this blood of black ink.

i am a collection of my own tragedies,
of my own comedies,
of my own romances.
a library of my own experiences.

not all the collection is good,
some books are quite damaged,
but not all the collection is bad,
my pages are still full of love.

you can pick out which books to read,
which stories you like
and which you’d rather leave,
but it’s still
there,
my past is still a part of me.


― personal library

you can dip your words in honey and sugarcoat your wicked tongue,
but nothing can change your rotten heart or change what you have done.

― poetry doesn't make what you did pretty

i held an old friend to my wrist tonight
panicked and unable to breath
a mess of sickening sobs
he pressed down against me
holding me in a comforting embrace
the tears soon ceased
and again i could breath
beneath my wristwatch band
i’ll keep this forbidden secret
nobody can know but me
nobody can know but me.

— relapse

sometimes i feel like a dog
loyal to its owner for all the wrong reasons
always returning with a wagging tail
after being hit
starved
beat
and abandoned.

— separation anxiety

the difference between feeling guilty
and feeling ashamed
is that society creates shame
and guilt is within yourself.
and i do not feel guilty for who i am.


― something i learned about being queer

an open window,
the smell of night's cool breeze,
static from an open laptop,
the sound of you sleeping next to me.


― subtle moments of bliss

i write poetry of you every night as i fall asleep,
hoping that perhaps when i wake that i might keep
this perfect image, this perfect moment,
this perfect feeling of you lying next to me.

― sweet dreams

tell me again the story about the sun and the moon,
how they were separated by night and day,
by time and space,
tell me again how they fell in love,
and crossed the sea of stars to be

together.

— tell me again our story

i turned around and shut the door but you still had the key.
so i changed the locks and hoped again
you wouldn't find your way back to me.

but you'd pick the locks and burn down the door
until there was nothing left anymore,
so this time i'll leave no door
for you to open and get to me.

― this is no longer your home, stay out

my wrists ache with desire and these lungs hitch
and heave with each sickening sob.
as my body begs to feel,
and my heart begs to not.

— to feel everything and nothing at once

tonight,
i am lonely.
tomorrow,
i will wake the same.
wrapped in sheets instead of arms,
in a bed absent of affection,
far from the only love i know.


— tonight i am lonely