one new burn on my wrist,
two tattoo's you'll never touch,
three new scars from falling,
four guys in my dm's,
five new pillows on my bed,
six coffee's with him,
seven days sharing apartments
eight kisses before bed
nine minutes in heaven,
ten reasons i don't think about you

"i can't"
just two or three tequilas,
then i’ll tell you how i’m feeling,
somewhere between toxic,
and relaxed, i can't win this back.
you think i’m always funny,
when i’m losing all my money,
placing bets on how long
this might last - it can't.
i've always been an afterthought,
feed myself another shot, cause
i’m over being an overthought,
i've tried to be easy, but loves not.
it costs too much to hold you,
sticking with it cause i know you -
i see the best in everyone,
your smiles on a discount
mines drawn on in clown,
why does this feel like theft,
baby, lets just lay this to rest.
wake me up when you remember,
how it felt, the beating in your chest,
i know you think about me still, spill -
but we both know,
"you can't".

we wake up and absorb it,
tightly write dry plans,
best laid to go awry.
i exhaust all my options now,
turn off the curling iron,
blow out the last candle,
tie up loose ends, mark my calendar.
transit apps quantify me home,
but i still overthink breathing,
always late, or too early,
there’s no timer for this life,
no remorse for the lists we’ve made,
or the poorly scheduled TTC train.
control is a bottomless pit, and
i drink every last drop, knowing
you could wake up tomorrow
and feel differently, and i guess
so could i - so let’s try,
with whatever control we have left.

soft like the moss growing on a warm day
between hard brick and asphalt -
we are still left to pave more of this ****,
what was written in a bible over broken ribs,
with an image of us cooking them in an apron.
we are taught to grow softly and tacitly,
not to make a scene or blow fuses in outage,
a complex dance of stereotypes and structure,
boxing up traits of passivity and ruthless nurturance.
we only know what we've been taught -
pinning gentle arms across tense virility,
to thank them for protection and armour -
which has only caused confusion and dissonance.
i craft my words wisely here, hiss for answers -
because anything more would make me too much,
they try to box me up, but never find one big enough.
our femininity does not equal vacancy,
empathy or vigour, neither gender-specific -
but i sometimes think we got different tools,
a baby doll, a kitchen set, i've learned to care
because i had no other option but to.
i've been wearing pants, paying the bills,
and still making time for dinner.
i still feel none the wiser -
sometimes i wish i was just handed a puzzle,
but we'd still have to thank them for the opportunity.

do i deserve your sympathy,
even when you see the worst in me?
a mosaic of broken pieces,
sharp fragments of memory,
and time well spent.
i am not a good person,
only crimson reds,
someone colouring in the lines -
trying not to fall off,
but still collecting the evidence:
my dark parts
are cut by the light, so,
the hue of being human
casts the glass either way.
like schrödinger’s cat,
i'm both half full and half empty -
so tell me what's your angle,
can you see right through me?
a mosaic of broken pieces,
sharp fragments of
mistakes and time wasted,
i am not a bad person,
only a prism, of shaded spectrums,
someone walking the line -
trying to balance virtues,
but still collecting the evidence:
my light parts
are cut by the dark, so,
do i deserve your empathy,
just cause you see the best in me?

"that's just life",
crickets fill your melancholic walk
as you come to your own reflection.
looking a bit less than yourself
in the glare of an UberX window.
i am the safe place you come back to,
at 2AM, just someone's after hours -
when i should be studying Foucault,
counting sheep and masters applications.
but, i’m here - stroke backs with short quips,
on how this is the last time -
like your sweater with the security tag,
you burn off your evening just to use me.
so i sit still, look pretty, find comfort,
wash off your hands from the floors of clubs,
and sometimes the Portland hot dog stand.
you kiss me with dilated pupils, a soft member,
and the insecurity of your own lack of purpose.
i wake up next week with a fever from hell,
my friend hangs up on me in anger,
i miss the streetcar home, so you meet me,
to make it more about you. of course
you’ve been through the same thing too -
push me off your arms, to tell me, well,
"that's just life".

like a true poet, i sit at my desk and write,
smoke nicotine over spilled ink, pour myself over
a glass of 19 Crimes, because it feels like it is one -
to be a mad woman, cursed with obsession
of hearing your own voice and alluding alliteration.
how quickly i can disrupt, then ask for forgiveness later,
saying exactly as it is, in one breath and nine tones -
which makes it easier to hate me - do you?
they call me a *****, but at least they're calling,
to condense my multitudes (and diction), to mania.
i always felt most beautiful with my eyes rolled back,
and you let me talk-back, I love you more for it,
when we play with words, and sometimes each other.
these days i've been resting more easily, learning slowly
not to bite my own tongue, or the hands that feed it.
i am all too often self-centered, and violently expressive,
skipping dinner, and structure, for expansion.
i want everyone to trust me, so i speak too earnestly,
and make everyone uncomfortable in the process.
but it's not my fault, that i can only be myself,
a mad woman, but not always a woman scorn,
like a true poet, i am mostly just a brat with a pen.