think my brain is sun-bleached
i haven't been outside in days
it's just sweat
just sweat
swimming in rivulets
down what's left
of my eyebrows
down what i haven't
pulled out yet
when i hold your hand
it feels like violets
like tasting strawberries
but i only feel it in my mind
it's only there projected on tile floors
on the cash register
if i was out of my head
i wouldn't have to just pretend
i could kiss you
but you're the only good thing
living in there.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 12:24 AM UTC
tiny boxes hang suspended
rows of lemon moonlight
burning just in your honor
the stale air of the bathroom envelopes you
like a moth in a cocoon
you are pale and shivering
reckoning for space within this empty stall
you kick the door, bored, and rattle the lock
trapped in a silk shell of your own making
ready for release
the sound bounces off dusty ceramic tiles
your anxieties echoing against pastels
it feels like walking on egg shells
it feels like waiting to hatch
and there is a sort of elegance
to this game of waiting it out
the chill of the floor seeps in
you sit in a womb of ice
baby blue and cream and cold
and you won’t feel warm again
until class is over
and you slip slowly
out the door
out the hall and
fly.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
the fishtank is whispering to me
i tell it i want to go home
the filter shudders a laugh
i am throwing myself against
concrete barriers to feel
blood gasping for breath but
i drown it in the shower
punishing tender flesh with the faucet
if this place is supposed to be beautiful
no one told my heart
and I feel the weight of my ugliness
in the pit of my stomach
an egg hatching, shredding insides,
fully deserved.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC
there will always be a twin sized bed waiting
for you in your favorite city; i used to fit there
now there is room for only one silhouette
between the thin, striped sheets
if i could i'd cut the dead weight taking up space
peel off my skin to shrink and dwindle down
to sleep in the space between your wall and you
in grey afternoon light like we used to; and
i hope when you sleep solo in your tiny bed
your dreams are sweeter than i could ever be.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 11:46 PM UTC
I set you on fire
suddenly
its my fault
your flesh flakes off in
withering embers
you are
an effigy of a supernova
cartilage between ribs sets off
like firecrackers
I become the acrid scent of pretend
i am
dissipating smoke and sweat and
gone.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
persephone stayed
as will you
for cyclic faith and loathing
hades reaches out
you have sympathy for the devil
come forth, like a fawn
he snaps your neck
there is no place for
the foolish and docile
take pomegranate seeds of pride
swallow and taste bruises
run back into the road
trust the headlights
they will hit you
they will always hit you.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 11:49 PM UTC
my stomach revolts often
and then sometimes not
food is appealing sometimes
but then often not
my heart stops sometimes
pushing sour saliva up my throat
bile pulses through my veins
but not often enough
I shower too much to be sad
sleep sometimes, too often enough
smile a little, but
too often to be anxious
brushing each tooth, carefully
I thought you were supposed to be depressed?
walking the line between too much
never enough
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
faux leather cracking, mauve in between
soft swoosh and wheels creaking
14 minutes and 38 seconds
your back stiffening, careful not to lean
too far back, in case the couch swallows you
why would you put such a small picture
in such a large frame? a sigh
you can’t run away from your anxiety attacks
you know
I know.
this is nothing like the movies
the bathroom is out of order
and there are barely any notes
on her clipboard
45 minutes and 22 seconds
let me know if the sadness gets worse, alright?
alright.
a child is gagging in the waiting room
you rush out without the copay
but you’ll be back again, soon.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC
the ideals of chemistry say that
the spaces between particles are
negligible.
the crinkles, vortexes are nothing,
distance between skin and hands,
insignificant.
the matter doesn't matter, yet
i feel the chasms growing wider,
gaping.
we are both naïve
but only i detect our ground
splitting.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC
I. Rusted clay envelops milky limbs
loosened into water like a cauldron of blood
aqua and maroon, red and blue all at once
bits of foam clump like white blood cells
carrying a piece of each person who has stepped on the shores before
through arteries of cold, velvet cream into the veins of each tree
for now.
II. The dentist removes his hand from a trap of pearls and pink tongue,
the shell opens and says it hates fishing, hates the bugs, hates the noisy birds, hates the muggy water and the sludgy shores
the dentist smiles and looks at his aquarium
so bright, so clear, so blue
each technicolor fish darts around on cue, a rehearsed dance under florescent lights
a computer monitor glows, the animated river on screen cheerfully murmurs a tune
a serene spring day in a bottle, in a box, in a crystallized projection of binary numbers
the shell comments on how beautiful this world can be
pays, hops in its gleaming SUV,and takes the tar river home.
III. The red cross.
a plus. positive.
clear tubes, shiny needles take crimson ribbons of blood
"it is to help those who cannot find help alone."
it leaks into plastic bags, on a plane to Africa
IV. A child sits on a riverbed, auburn mud
slowly draining over white bone, more protein than plasma
his arms and heart are full of new blood
his water being spit from a paper cup
bits of food and saliva down the swirly drain
in a dentist's office near a man made river
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC