i rarely drink anymore
i tell you it’s because my skin dries out
my head full of fiberglass insulation in the morning
my stomach sour pennies
my hands pressed hard atop the real reason
that gin and tonic tastes like you
that muffled bass whispers in the clinking ice
that there’s no place for skin-on-skin now
and it makes me hungry
Jan 19
Jan 19, 2026 at 4:41 PM UTC
my saddest poetry, born of shelter, carved prayer in old desks
held tight in safe sweaters
and safe hands and safe tragedy
like
i think a.s. hates me and
i’m not ready to leave
my saddest poetry, obsolete
who could relate, now, to such small heartache
to such warm, quaint grief
Dec 14, 2025
Dec 14, 2025 at 2:50 PM UTC
I’m not afraid of death, unless death
is the grapevine beetle atop my air conditioner.
It’s too big to get in through the cracked screen
but I know it can get in through some fracture I can’t see
and it’s so big
it’s so, so big
I could step on it in the middle of the night
foggy-eyed
and leave a small crime scene
spotted carapace shattered
embedded in the rug
where it might clog the vacuum
so I should toss the rug entirely
but what if the grapevine beetle had a family
and it’s living in my air conditioner
and they lie dormant until I forget
and then they emerge from the vents
and I realize that the cold air for all this time
has been marred by Schrödinger’s larvae
and I can’t get my skin to feel clean
and I can’t think about anything else
but beetles
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 8:52 AM UTC
do new yorkers feel like townies
when they land back in manhattan?
do bodegas get fruit flies and trap them in vinegar?
i wonder if they keep up with the rotting
does my voice sound higher on the phone?
i think i would be taller if i hadn’t known you
i think i’d play the guitar and have callused finger tips
freckles are wasted on the sun-shy
so i lie, starfished, in mown grass.
Jul 4, 2025
Jul 4, 2025 at 9:37 AM UTC
somewhere on a peeling windowsill,
I am starting over.
I am crawling under paint chips
to reemerge with six legs
strong enough to lift things heavier than me.
somewhere in a library basement,
I am learning how to speak.
how to hold my tongue to the roof of my mouth
when I’m quiet.
how to keep my teeth straight
for aesthetics
and for vegetables.
somewhere in a moving airplane,
I am breathing in, breathing out.
I am breathing in, breathing out.
I am wiggling my toes to feel that this is temporary
the ground will be there in the evening
when I land.
somewhere in a coffee shop,
I am behind the counter,
asking beautiful people
what’ll it be
and I am at the counter,
holding warm soy milk on my tongue
and I am outside,
squinting in the sun,
strong enough to lift things heavier than me.
Jun 16, 2025
Jun 16, 2025 at 8:21 AM UTC
I sketch you in Vivid Tangerine,
my Crayola memory frantic to get you down
before you’re gone again.
My therapist and you are at odds.
Treating OCD, she says, is about
desensitizing,
taking the power from the thought,
but you, the thought, are—
the scab on my lower lip
that every day, I wake and say
today, I will leave it alone
today, it will start to close
and then when I’m alone I crack it open
because the peel is satisfying, sure
but so is the pain itself,
and that’s the part I didn’t tell my therapist.
I think if I keep you surreal,
neon,
I can keep you a little longer.
Jan 25, 2025
Jan 25, 2025 at 10:19 AM UTC
I was wearing a sweatshirt with an embroidered bluejay on it when this stranger
whacked my shoulder with his hand
gestured behind me, meaning look back there
where a woman, about my age, sat idling at the stop sign
calling something to me that I couldn’t hear—
did I know her from somewhere? Had she been trying to say hello?
Had I dropped something on the crosswalk?
Confused, I turned back around
and the stranger flipped me off
continued walking briskly, hardly having broken his gait
though to me it had been a full minute since he’d touched me
I could hear the woman now, as I came back to myself
Are you all good? Ah, he wasn’t pointing to her, she was just where he was pointing
I was, but thank you so much for checking
She said he’d been following me so closely for a block
and she didn’t love the look of it
I could hardly hold my blossoming heart inside, straining against the bluejay
for her otherworldly kindness
I took a different route back to my apartment, in case he was waiting for me ahead
I scrutinized my corner for his dark sweatshirt and pale face
but fortunately
I remembered hers much better
Jan 19, 2025
Jan 19, 2025 at 12:43 PM UTC
I.
switching to lamps from the overhead has
warmed the room modestly
but it’s not what the fire once was
as I tighten my robe and eat the
cranberries from the sauce one by one
tv buzzing
II.
I wanted to keep lightly tethered
ask you how you’re holding up, sometimes
take photos off the walls, but
move them to the basement, not the trash
but you insisted—and I oblige
no talking, no remembering
**** sorry
I forgot
III.
I end the year with hardened skin
on my left index finger
on my lower lip
on my heel
scratching until there's blood, and then
this is the resolution:
stop stop stop stop stop
it’s harder each time to take myself seriously when I promise
Jan 5, 2025
Jan 5, 2025 at 3:36 PM UTC
listen—
this is just the way it is
I see your headlights in the drive-thru
last winter
in the camera lens tonight
this is not personal, you said
you cried, thinking it was dark enough
voice steady (if you focused on the radio)
not personal, but permanent
and I was in no position to argue
lately, I haven’t had much that I’ve ached to tell you
—that feels a little personal—
and I only remember when certain angles of light
hit me like a freight train
after the sun goes down
Nov 10, 2024
Nov 10, 2024 at 10:17 AM UTC
sometimes I close my eyes
imagine I’m blind
shapes and light veiled, soft
day and night melting, overlapping
rain and sun both bright
words you said and hums you
may have made
I can’t remember, now
memory and vision criss-cross
past and daydream clasping hands
when I open them, you dissipate
each time I call you back
growing warmer
Oct 20, 2024
Oct 20, 2024 at 11:35 AM UTC