You cannot say you truly love her.

Not until you've seen the demons
she fought or still fighting to keep
her sanity, nor the monsters that
fuelled her nightmares.

Not until you've had an idea about
the storms she had to face bravely,
yet still managed to share her light
and warmth with you.

It's not always warm coffee and
blanket shared on cold mornings.

It's not always sunshine and butterflies.

It's not only her light that needs to be
cherished.

When you say you truly love her,
you gotta love her dark, too.

We often wonder why our hearts
get broken, and I think I am
beginning to understand why.

A tiny thing, so precious yet so
fragile, had to be undone before
it can be made whole again.

My guess is, in putting the pieces
back together;
we find strength in weakness.
We find courage in vulnerability.
We understand ourselves better.

And with what we lose,
we also gain more of ourselves.

She is made
up of broken
bits and pieces,
held together
delicately by
her golden scars.

And that, my friend,
is what made
her beautiful.

I like the
way the city looks
in the rain
we're sure gods
sloshing through puddles
you're holding my hand
and letting go
to things
in the sky
I hope to god
we find our raincoats
underneath
our tolerance for
**** on the next street
over
and the way
our faces
grow older
with every black
death on the
television
but
this isn't living
this isn't living,
no.
I like you
grew up on tumblr
and a father
who drank
enough to love you
you're wounded
but isn't our whole
generation
acting out our
violences
on television.
If bad luck
could talk
she would drive
me out of the city
without saying
a word.
yes
I know
I'm a coward
when it comes
to keeping my word
but I would marry
her tomorrow
If I could.
vacating the tombs
of Montrose Avenue
and ghosts of the desert
Simon & Garfunkel
on the stereo
shop windows reflecting
an aching reckoning
I like the
way the city looks
in the rain.

If I could
pinpoint the
exact moment
your breath
touched mine
washed me over
in ocean waves
sea creatures glowing
in delightful recognition
as the seedlings
of connection
shimmied into our being
and, dancing within me
in its own lifeforce
your mind a living,
breathing animal
your heart, purring
and whirring its sacred forces
into my molecular structures
your soul throbbing
in mitochondric pulsing
(oh what
a delicious vibration
of ribosomes)
Between us, we hold
the true treasures
close, in frothy
                       tenderness
a purity of the expanse
of our universe,
swathed in prismatic color
colors that shift,
these fresh hues
for which there are no name
they are lucid and fine-woven
as silk histories
yet deep as earthcore
your eyes, voice
are forever burned
into my own
every day scriptures
that rock my shattered parts
into wholeness
and,
like ancient magic,
I conjure forth
the holy gospel
rising from our bones
every second of
every minute
as our deepest fires
our most secret filth
our murky corners
our darkest hours
we weave into light
brilliant and lustrous
multi-layered in the richest
folds of the earth
and as you place me
upon the shores
of your garland-graced
                              throne
Now I'm alive in a new
kind of light
and
all I can do
is love
        and love
and love

I smell like abuse,
and you lit a match just to watch me burn.

I still sometimes wear
your sweater
to sleep.

"Hello, how are you?"
I say in a voice I can't believe is mine.
I hate it so much.
It's become like nails on a chalkboard to my ears.

I ask the human in front of me,
"What can I get you today?"
They ignore me.
Finally someone approaches.

It's an older lady,
gray bushy hair with wild eyes.
I smile and begin to take her order.
She begins to make rude remarks towards me.

She leaves,
someone else approaches.
It's a man angry about a price I did not set.
He takes it out on me.

I take all of the verbal punches.
From people who have had their worst days,
to people who are just too privileged to give a little kindness,
I smile through it all.

I don't really think anyone who walks in,
really sees me as a human being.
They don't see that I fight social anxiety for a living,
or that I go through things too.

They don't care.
They don't want to care.
When they ask how I am,
they don't want an honest answer.

I wonder if they would smile,
or compliment me instead of insulting me,
if I weren't standing behind a counter,
taking orders and giving change.