stretch of rippling muscle
sewed by tendons of responsibility
buckling beneath the swelling magnitude
on one set of shoulders
each tear felt for generations
each contortion of a hungry gut
each night in an unfamiliar bed
it is you
who holds separate
the heavens and earth
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 10:55 PM UTC
i would ask you for a simple “i do”
if that’s all i wanted
but there is no certificate
or ceremony
that could weld my soul to yours
fuse together the aura of you and of me
i would hand you my heart on a plate
let me birth your offspring
give me your every morning, hair messy
i need your each night, teeth brushed
you are my water
my air
marriage holds no candle
Sep 28, 2024
Sep 28, 2024 at 8:21 PM UTC
lifetimes
of being plastic,
used and thrown away.
repeating the process
over and
over and
over and
over again.
discarded to
the nearest metal can (not even recycled!)
when i no longer serve my
fleeting purpose.
now
i am shiny and
washed by gentle hands and
placed on soft towels to dry
disposable cutlery
no more!
i am now
silverware
Feb 20, 2022
Feb 20, 2022 at 7:28 PM UTC
I am scared to call you home
because home is not knowing whether or not you are wanted. home is 12 hour school days and long walks to the bridge to stay away. home is instability and harsh words and TV dinners at 10 pm. home is different people and different apartments and learning different ways to walk on eggshells.
but you are four walls and a fireplace and pictures on the mantle. you are Christmas dinner and game nights and fluffy blankets on the couch. you are bedtime stories and long hugs and kisses goodnight. you are safe and you are warm and you make me feel wanted.
you are home.
Sep 25, 2021
Sep 25, 2021 at 11:38 PM UTC
i like finding stray brown hairs in
my bathroom sink or on
my couch or under
my blankets
little reminders of
you brushing your teeth or
you sitting beside me or
you kissing my face
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 7:19 PM UTC
you fell asleep on my chest
and it scares me how much
i want you to stay
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 7:35 PM UTC
She swims in tumultuous
water that churns with the tides
of melancholic rage
I scoop her in cupped
hands and drag her weary body
past the rocky shore to the soil
in the rich dirt I dig
a hole big enough for her corpse-seed
and plant her.
I am an anxious gardener
I ration my Sad Water carefully
and search the ground for decay
her roots grow down without
my eyes preying upon them
in damp dark clay.
growth is a slow moving practice.
I hope she becomes a tree.
Mar 4, 2021
Mar 4, 2021 at 5:19 PM UTC
inside me there is
a red piece
and a blue piece
the red protects me like
a wildfire
but it burns and destroys the beauty around me
the blue grounds me like
a puddle of water
but it’s heavy when it pulls me under
i am water
i am fire
and i am constantly drowning and scorching
from inside out
my blues and reds
are labeled by others as crazy
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 7:49 PM UTC
you've been so strong for so long.
I can see the ivy growing
on the walls you've built around yourself-
roots deep in self-preservation
and stubborn leaves stretching
to the alabaster sky.
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 6:59 PM UTC
have you written my name
in the margins of your notes
yet?
(not that I have or anything.)
it's just that I keep thinking
of your smile and
the way you wrapped your pinky around mine
when we promised to see each other again.
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 9:44 PM UTC