When you died by your hand
I carried you into the mountains of my mind
and buried you there in marble.
I gave you a cathedral of winter.
Candles of ice.
The slow blue language of saints.
I washed your human mouth from memory
until it no longer laughed crookedly at my bad jokes,
until your temper no longer struck sparks against the kitchen walls,
until your restless feet no longer wandered barefoot at midnight
through rooms full of sleeping flowers.
I removed from you every earthly thing.
Like a coward polishing a gravestone,
I polished your sorrow
until I could see my own face inside it.
And for decades afterward
I guarded you from life itself.
I would not let the rain touch you.
I would not let dust gather in your hair.
I would not let anyone remember
that sometimes you were impatient,
or frightened,
or so alive with fury
you could darken a whole summer afternoon.
No.
I chained you above me like a frozen moon,
because I thought grief was a church
and guilt its only faithful bell.
But the dead are not marble.
The dead are loose in the earth.
They are in coffee stains and unwashed sweaters,
in half-finished sentences,
in the smell of cold air entering a warm house,
in grocery lists folded inside old coat pockets,
in the sudden laughter that escapes us
before sorrow remembers our name.
And one morning
after all those years of dragging your statue through my blood,
I saw you again—
not as the holy wound I made of you,
but as the girl who once turned toward me
with sunlight caught in her teeth.
Human again.
Beautiful because you could break.
Beautiful because you did.
Then the marble cracked.
Winter entered the cathedral
and carried everything away,
cracking that towering pedestal
I perched you upon that you
never, ever wanted to be on...
And there you were at last:
not a saint,
not a ghost,
not my punishment,
but only my Only Love—
standing briefly in the tall grass of the world
before the Four Winds moved through you
and called you onward.
May 24
May 24, 2026 at 11:57 PM UTC
I know you won’t read this
and I know you won’t care
but I will tell you what it was like.
It was blurry.
it was slow
but time was running fast.
It was dusty feet
and dusty souls.
It was feeling nothing
and then all at once.
It was hating you
to drown the urge of hugging you.
It was writing a poem
and post it
wishing you will relate to it.
But who cares,
you don’t.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 4:53 PM UTC
I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.
Now read from bottom to top.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
i used to be
afraid of death
isn't that funny
because now
i like killing myself
i like the feeling of
being torn apart by
other people's opinions
i beg them to tell the truth
even when i know
it's not what i want to hear
tell me
tell me you liked my hair longer
before i cut it short
tell me
tell me i'm too skinny
that i should put on some weight
tell me
tell me you're shocked
tell me i should know these basic things
i want the truth
not a sugar coating
and i don't exactly want it to hurt
but i'm starting to think
it is better than nothing
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
She disappeared with the black spot
that crossed the sun
and left behind footsteps of a dream
made of velvet and fire
and I could still feel the earth and soil
of her poetry echoing between
the outline of her ghost
and the curve of her smile
she left in the shadow of the moon
and I could hear her heart beating
in the far distant woods
of the stars drunk in sky
from the envy they felt
of her sensual skin glistening
in the mist and memory of oceans uncharted
and shores where sin and love
we free to embrace
without guilt or shame
and I wondered where her name had gone
and how her lips would taste
and what could have been
if I had traveled beyond
the love for the words she wrote
in fire and velvet
still burning in the footprints
she left behind in a dream
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:21 AM UTC
rotting away, limb by limb
"how come you never talk?"
no one's listening
"but you're liked and loved"
and still I feel so alone
a kingdom to myself
isn't a place to call home
the trees are mad
ripping apart their hair
lifelessly laying, a shortage of air
the birds are glaring ominously
at me, a biased perception or reality?
animals are limping, moaning for love
while cupid's head dangles inside of my tub
I'll show you my hands, indeed they are red
guilty I'm not, only sick in the head
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC