lost in the lock of longing,
like a mother that never loved me rocking me to sleep
when all you can think about is
the stars in the frigid night sky
it can be hard to imagine the glow of the sun as anything but garish
but what when the stars disappear?

and while it’s hard,
i can’t find malice for someone that my younger self used to love
she would be too disappointed in me if i did

I am covered in sticky black ink
in nightfall that traces the exact shape of my body
the world is dark with my eyes closed or open
i try to scrape it off and create poetry but i can no longer
it is a part of me
it is a bruise that blooms like sunset over my skin
with crushed stars lingering in my hair
and for years i craved you and cried
i thought you were concentrated hope
beautiful and just out of reach
i can flick the lights on
and see you as you are now
there is a fine line between hope and dread

I'm made out of sunset
Of mirrors that smashed
I'm made out of nothing that is made to last
and if you know me,
I am permanently preoccupied with your past

The **** jokes/the derelict bathroom stalls etched with a million scribbles, organized chaos of a hundred girls screaming quietly/when they asked where we wanted to vacation he wrote anywhere but here and hit submit/sitting in the dark with grainy holocaust pictures on the screen and crying in the classroom/standing in the gym away from your group as the basketballs thump on the ground in constant rhythm and the girl staring at you, asking what are you wearing/crying even more in the bathroom/the "he never loved you" and better luck next time/walking home alone, cold and the trees whisper in the wind anywhere but here, fly away anywhere but here/

we are sitting on a roof,
hair billowing,
eyes darting
across the abandoned schoolyard
hoping some ghostly officers
won't scream at us to
come down from the sky
we are constant,
even when the inconsistent dreams melt around us,
when they tell us- god is a killer,
and the women are rotting in their brightly colored fabrics,
that the holy books are full of poison,
dripping angelic off the pages until they blind us for all to see,
that we are not muslims,
not christians,
nothing at all
except for empty bodies
connected in a rusted set of chains,
only eased by tears,
by rain,
by your bright eyes,
something almost holy