drive slowly,
i know it’s not what you wanted,
the long haul, just stuck and controlling,
can’t always turn where you want to.
it’s been a long ride,
tunnels, and drifting between stops,
i lean on your shoulder and get lost,
don’t know where the line crossed.
are we there yet,
eager and getting our feet wet,
can’t plan a good thing, just wait for it,
maybe another hour or two,
this will pass too, so -
drive slowly.

i'm not good at math, approximations,
don't like uneven numbers, cos sins, whats right?
your star sign is the worst, sometimes you too,
other times i am complete, prime, whole,
i'm not good at relationships, only staying,
don't like even tempers as bandaid approaches,
your picking up your skeletons in the closet -
other times i am cleaning up the bones and dust,
i'm not good at goodbyes, only apertures,
don't like to leave things closed, sometimes you are,
other times i am warm, safe, sanctioned,
don't like to be the entirety of a set, that you deem null

say something sweet to me, tell me i'm everything,
wipe away all my tears, show me there's no fears -
kiss me in bed every night, **** the bugs and the bad guys,
tell me i'm perfect, lie to me, i'm worth this?
say i'm being melodramatic, i'm your bad habit,
wipe the sleep from my eyes, show me how i'm divine,
hug me in the mornings, this is your warning,
tell me w'll be okay, lie to me, i'm hoping.

my bags covered the hallways, and i
took the shower curtain, not the memories,
like when you left me to go party in January,
dissembled us and lost the allan key -
left the birthday cards in the junk drawer,
where you can find me - discarded dust bunny,
sat on the balcony, and cried about it…again,
then remembered when you yelled at me,
made me feel smaller than a strawberry -
shortcake never sweet enough to make you see,
recipes and ikea instructions won't fix us, so,
you left me, thinking i should never get close
to anyone, ever, talking in my sleep,
now it feels better in my own company -
but tonight i feel weak, maybe i don't have any
redeemable qualities, that they can love deeply -
but i pick up my bags, bolt the rotten door, and go,
hammer in my resentments, kick my head up, so
leave us in the cold, **** around and find out,
but you still text me though.

the way i triple text with, full consciousness,
unapologetically say how i feel, with kindness,
bump heads with the dryer door, too often,
lose track of the ttc stops, i go too far,
frame every mistake like, an opportunity,
give affection like i'm running, out of time,
make sure i never air, ***** laundry,
check in with my friends, hold everyone close,
open Waze 20 times in case, always planning,
day dream vividly away, minds another reality,
make friends with everyone i meet, being friendly
ask 5 times if, everyone is comfortable around me,
donate money every time, because giving is everything,
this is just to say that i love me endlessly

remember when i told you
how it felt to live without it,
i could scream it, can’t unsee it,
and it’s exhausting how i need it,
read it on my face, and weep it,
every piece of me, falling
into shoulders, buckling over,
can you bare it, the weights of living,
touch it, you can handle me with care,
even serrated, even serene,
developing plot lines, uncut seams,
we keep forgiving, envisioning,
a future that we have, it’s now,
together, we are personality, perception,
sharp slivers, in need of sanding.

always thinking about you,
half way across the world
holding my own two hands
waiting for the plane
thinking how we’d pulse them,
as in, “love you”, fingers rough,
you’d make me laugh,
through all the delayed flights and
Sofia gossip, we’d eat good cheese,
hold onto memories with less resent,
because everything’s simple when
all i do is hold onto you, the love i left,
distance makes the heart grow and i’m
half way across the world,
just thinking about it.

go the distance, take a cab,
pay the tolls and mark my words,
i'm not asking for a lot, just go,
and make sense of what you have.
take for granted, but grant me the
serenity to accept what i cannot change,
you, remember how my shoes feel -
and something tells me, you don't want
to change for anyone - i wouldn't bid on it,
but at least i'll drive up the price.

holding me or holding back,
haven't got the time for that,
pick a side and stick to it,
or to me, autonomously
you decide your fate, and
i've been both faithful and
revered for knowing when
to call a ***** a *****,
but i'm so secure in myself
that i don't want sympathy,
except for yours, so just have me.
sometimes i wonder if i'm
worth holding on to,
but at least i say it all,
can't you see i'm see through?

******* in knots, and
silky smooth, just
me, myself, and you,
a pack of Cottage Springs,
hungover willful mornings,
and all the words between.
we’ve met a hundred times,
i’ve died a thousand deaths,
but still i introduce you,
to all the parts i’ve left -
the girl with shiny dreams,
actress as it seems - scientist of
feeling, no absolutes, some truths,
dramatic, and quiet at the seams,
a stinging people pleaser, pleasure
in a box, i can cry, i can gleam;
i don’t know anything,
just me, myself, and you,
silky smooth, and
i’m ******* in knots.

you left me on the corner of
mistreated and mishandled,
stone cold cobble stone for
a heart and clicked heels,
tossing a **** on the ground,
only to throw out my feelings,
pushing passion in the name of
whatever suits you -
and it hurts you to see me now.

have a good summer without me,
man without dryer sheets, stinking,
singing in the alley behind truth,
something you stumble over still.
did you ever even notice me?
how i spin for you, knotting together
reason and feelings for answers.
you search for half empty cups
on your side of the bed - and say
i’m too good for you, that
you’ll always be this way - so
have a good summer without me,
knowing that’s the only truth
you’ve ever told me.

I will enjoy this life. I will bite into
the overripe bananas, the in-season
strawberries, and remain impartial.
I will not worry about the tempers,
the Karen in the Niagara Dominos,
weeds that daunt our growth,
we can choose to love past this.
I will stir the *** of doubt, and
balance salt and sugar in style.
Burning insults, when I call myself an
ironic idiot, both brilliant and broken
pushing open the pull doors,
we can choose to live past this.
I will enjoy this life. I will bite into
the frozen mango, wait for pain, like
a slow elevator, and remain impartial.

if you take all my sheets off,
& say the worst things in the dark
i can learn to find some rest, knowing
i won‘t love you any less.
even when i’m mad and blue,
and say the same things back to you,
pack your things and leave a mess
knowing, i won’t love you any less.
& when i hold on much too tight and
cling to all the what-if/mights,
even when you don’t pass my tests,
i won’t love you any less.
if you forget how i feel and turn
away to something “real”,
i hope you’ll remember how i felt, but
i won’t love you any less, i guess,
because of all the ways i’ve loved,
and all the ones that i let run,
i take a breathe, and beat my chest, cause
i won’t love you any less.

maybe it will stay, maybe it will grow,
i can’t pretend to know, either way
we tend our yucca plant, we absolve the root rot,
weather the mistakes we make together,
drill the door with two towel hangers,
knowing we can’t always patch things up,
and still we think of baby bassinets in the study,
and still, you could leave me or love me, either way,
i’ll be just the same (alone in the end),
the funny girl with the comfort of every woman,
death do us part, but with you beside me, maybe
well maybe, i’d just have a better time rotting,
maybe it will grow, maybe it will stay,
i can’t pretend to know, either way.

you say we're running out of pages,
i say, i'm running out of time,
to make what's left art, my character's arc,
i find beauty in the madness all the time.

you listen to whoever’s loudest,
i'm writing quietly, "you're sadistic",
for never caring how i could fit in it,
stories coming to an end,
resolution's just pretend,
why did you call me your friend?

you know i'm more for retribution,
daggers in my back, i pull through it,
sharpen blades and play okay,
let you narrate your mistakes,
i bite tongues and say it’s fine,
calculate my grand goodbye,
now i know it's the last time.

you say we're only getting older,
i say, i'm not the bravest solider,
when you made me go to war,
waving white flags at our shore,
did you think i could take more?
i’m out of pages, writing more...

a light knock on your friends door,
come out and run with me -
let's fly on our bikes for answers,
down a hydro field - down a mickey,
watch the wires send messages, before
the Facebook status', before we knew
how to find peace in doing nothing.
the currency of youth, the awakening,
we all have a voice in our heads? developing
self conscious, *******, an anxiety disorder?
you don't know who you are yet -
you don't know anything!
just walking around garden sections
of Canadian Tire's with your dad -
who kept all his fake Monopoly money.
look dad! the peonies, look! the orchids,
and i'm still absorbing life like this -
noticing beauty, collecting e-currencies,
posting Instragram stories - and
i feel too young to be responsible for it.

i don't know **** about love,
not the temperature, or commitment,
ball and chains we wield over
how we want possessions and forever's.
i don't know how to love half-way,
not checking the texts back,
letting chips fall where they may,
half my head filled with air,
leave the door closed, for an open window,
or another reason to worry.
i don't know when to let it be,
if it's not you whos next to me -
not a jealous bone in me, but,
can't imagine you laughing with her
or anyone else, because i am something
of a narcissist myself -
and i don't know how to see you go,
so i never get a prescription.

you turn on the hallway light,
make us another coffee to share,
and if i tell you now how it felt
how i feel, would you still want me?
if i tell you, that i’ve been rotten too,
will you still bring out the best in me?
you give me the calm, what ifs are
what our kids names could be,
is it taboo to love this deeply?
there’s a gentle scent of peace, that is you
and i’ve never fell this softly,
into you, my sweetest taboo.

i like my body when it is with your
body. it is a natural tug and pull.
my head draws onto your shoulder.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its edges. i like to feel your arm
and how it holds me, trembling
for my hands which felt foreign then.
your smooth ness and ridges of thumbs,
i want to hold you tightly, firmly,
- again and again and again and again
kissing, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, making a home in your skin for us
both reeling with electric forces, parting
flesh  . . . . . and hearts widened to eat
all the love-crumbs we trailed years for,

and possibly i just like the amusement

of how i look underneath you.

my eyes get stuck on objects,
thoughts rushing in like a
Best Buy boxing day sale,
i stare at corners of the room,
hoping to meet answers -
palms build moisture, eyes lock,
what could i have done differently?
you see right through me,
and wonder, in ways i wonder,
trying to be ten steps ahead,
on a immobile cognitive treadmill,
and for what? you stick right by me.
so conceited of me to think that,
i’m the only one reading the room,
when you’re always the one
i’m sharing it with. i don’t feel stuck,
i don’t stare much longer,
like corners of my mind,
we meet in the middle,
and you find me.

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.

you call me again today.
it’s Wednesday at seven-o-clock,
my phone displays signs of battery drainage
because my life is equally burnt out, it blinks
for every second that we mull over details,
life’s silly intricacies that we dissect in delight,
like your terrible boomer boss Trevor, or
the bad banh mi you bought for lunch,
sometimes the person i’ll text next,
or my 2nd degree burn from the hot steamer.
i come over next, and we walk to Type Books,
buying more fiction than we can create.
you stop us at Tecumseh for A&W burgers,
because you watched a fun commercial on Youtube.
we go back to yours and watch period dramas,
everything about us is child-like. we huddle,
covered under a wool blanket, like the grandparents
in ***** Wonka, i stand up and perform a one woman
show reenacting a scene from Shrek, i go home.
i call you again tomorrow

i go to loud places in the nights we don't talk,
and sit at open tables with myself and peeled cuticles,
chipped green nail polish, and more rings than brain cells -
(i don't belong here.)
i go to loud places and i think about myself,
not in an ego, romantic way, more so in the way that i
end up at my own worst comedy roast -
(i think everything's wrong with me.)
i go to loud places and i stare at beautiful women,
how her skin looks so soft, blonde and dewy,
dancing over Katranada, with perfect lip filler -
(i think you'd talk to her.)
i go to loud places and i want to be alone,
search for someone to be quiet with who might relish
in my quick wit and peaceful violence -
(i still feel less interesting.)
i go to loud places and look bored and afraid,
and most times i am - as soon as i arrive i pack up whats left,
find the nearest exist, and ignore my shouting friends -
(i don't think they care.)
i go to loud places and i think about you,
even when i try not to, men buy me drinks and ask me things
but they don't get through, can't escape the truth -
(i wish i were with you),
i go to loud places and wonder why i choose not to.

i miss you in the sense that i miss the summer,
only on the coldest days, when i remember
altered realities, moments i felt warm and funny.
i miss you in the sense that i miss our ankles crossing,
and i think about venting to you, even when i think
about how you think about, how i’m a bad listener.
i miss you in the sense that i miss football,
because it gave me an excuse to be at your place,
after i could wear those sweatpants i liked -
now i think about my cozy apartment with coldness
and clarity, that i don’t want this bored moment
to last longer than my longing, which it has.
i miss you, when life is full of greys and grandeur, or
electric intensity, self doubt, self hate, and scoring to
track our mistakes before they keep repeating.
i miss you when i’m stubborn and annoying and
none of my friends have the heart to call me out, but you
do, and pull me in with ease, our bodies crash like waves
coming together only to pull tides apart.
i miss you in the sense that i miss myself, because you’re
always a part of me - and there’s no good in goodbye,
and no good in going steady, but i miss you, so i text you anyways.

i sit alone all night and watch as the
cars cross the bridge in rhythmic cycles,
i’m bundled on my couch under layers
of paperwork and half a medium pizza,
planning a summer trip in February.
i watch 4 episodes of the Walking Dead,
write a masters paper on Neoliberalism,
and call my mom to celebrate survival.
i live another week as a mid 20 something
who owns a Yeti cooler, a bright pink vape,
and a terrible personality to match.
is this what growing up looks like? i wonder.
i FaceTime my friend who bought a house,
another who lost a bet shaving his head for fun
and it is… to be this old and this young,
because either your friends are getting married,
or they’re sleeping with a CTV actor named Donald.
i don’t think there’s a point where this adds up,
the wave of maturity dances on our sore backs,
now it’s paying property taxes, it separates recycling,
goes to bed at 10:30pm sharp with a longer hangover,
meal preps for 7 days, only to order Uber Eats again.
you told me once there wasn’t a textbook for all this -
so I guess like my poems i just have to wing it.

you sit with yourself as you always have, alone,
i sit with the complexity of my emotions, together,
letting myself feel everything in the company
of my friends, loved ones, and a self-help book.
i know what safe love feels like because of them,
and that's why i have 25 reasons to wake up and try again.
sometime's i'm alone, but not really, i can't be -
at risk of texting apologies, or writing hurtful truths.
a network of feelings too vast to hold in -
you don't want to see me unearthed.
i wish i didn't have to write about this, you know that,
i'd rather a love poem and soft reflections on trees,
and so i give you my feelings like an arborist would,
watching my friends dissolve my splinters,
cutting my rotting branches one-by-one,
reframing them into fences of growth and change.
i wish i had their way, of seeing what i can be,
instead, i feel like a lotus in a pond of **** -
shining bright pink, like my cheeks, mildly embarrassed
by my own fluid, chaotic, and unhinged sense-of-self.

(it’s awful) to not be loved by you, (i do),
to feel i never will, mainly because i have a weird laugh,
and know too much about the wrong things, and too little
about the right things (things they like). because i have too many
opinions and i don’t like to be wrong about them (i am).
now i’m either a push over or being pushed,
and you find every button in me amusing.
i don’t find this funny at all, does he? (do you?)
you think i am unfeeling, but you never say how you feel -
i flood out the basement of my heart for what’s less of us. (not much).
you push away to an island of self hate and sabotage (avoidance),
ignore the problems and throw anchors down at “bad timing”,
you find more reasons to hate me, because it’s easier (it’s not.)
i think i am a deeply flawed good person, you think i hate you,
against my better judgement, i always learn
to love them more, and where’s the u in animosity?
that has always been my way, (unlike you), i believe i can change,
so i learn to love me more too, tell myself i need more (it’s true.)
(it’s awful) to love someone you don’t want. (i do).

you’re my little secret, vicious
how you come into my life
without a plan, heaven gracious
when you hold my back, and
tell me you’ve been waiting,
for my texts, i wish i missed my ex,
you look like a convenient solution
to a problem i haven’t defined yet.
because i’m fine - at least
that’s what you call me, to tell me
that your mine for the night, but
i’m not your protector, just a collector
of words, situationships, sometimes
masking longing for maturity, just cause
i’m a therapist, doesn’t mean i make sense.
i still don’t know what i’m longing for,
you stay a while, hold me more,
because i asked, but mostly because
you’re too drunk to drive, you lost
my number in the crash, it was
a while back, so you email me to ask.

sometimes i think my life is a movie,
my consciousness a delighted narrator,
except these aren’t all paid actors,
just some people i met over the years.
friends laugh at my every delusion,
my words are not a plot device,
forgetting how they have consequences,
the character gets no sleep at night.
my love interests don’t speak in haikus,
don’t run after me when i try to leave,
or affectionately rub my back at night
as i finally fight to fall asleep.
mortgage bills pill on my desk,
i look stupid smoking cigarettes,
main character energy is hard to come by,
when you have severe asthma and a god complex,
i guess my life is not a movie,
but at least it passes the Bechdel test.

who cares less,
indifference is a slow death,
i’d rather hate and curses,
a crafted sigh of doubt and annoyance,
i’d rather hear their screams.
anger is swift and cunning,
it makes more sense to believe,
maybe, somethings wrong with me,
i’d rather hot idiosyncrasies,
they don’t want to keep up with me.
indifference is dressed up apathy,
they clean every inch,
but leave baby in the corner -
everything’s just ***** dancing,
i try to mend, but no amends,
indifference is a slow death,
who cares less.

if you weren’t my friend,
i wouldn’t know who i was -
a part of me replaced by insecure ex’s,
musicians with bad communication,
software developers, underdeveloped,
shifting parts of identity made out of static.
i would cry somber and alone again,
instead of under christmas lights
to the Gilmore Girls opening credits,
where we sing too loud to hear our thoughts.
a sour wine bottle between us, and
vacation magnets lining my refrigerator
from all the places we’ve face-timed from.
reviewing in details your love bombing dates
and my anxious attachment -
raw parts that feel unprocessed,
which you quickly dismiss as normal.
i hope he can love me like you have,
simply, softly, like breathing - and
as brilliant and cunning as we can be,
but never as handsome, obviously.
i love to grow our gardens together,
tending to one another’s strengths and
nurturing weakness for authenticity.
i would take the miway, gotrain, and ttc -
just to laugh on the cold beach with you,
and make some mistakes for review
over another cup of coffee.

sometimes i think i’d be easier,
if i drifted away so slowly
that i don’t make a shift or screech.
just a click of a door, the floor board
creeking into the night, creeping,
like my writing at dawn stirring,
soft, wistful, and depressing.
i can leave, don’t worry about it -
i know i exist so violently, i like to.
people think i'm off-putting -
they want me to eat my words,
but i just keep typing more and more,
im hungry to disrupt and find peace after.
Emily says i know better,
but i only know a few things, like
i’m annoying and loud, opinions
bustle out of me in vexing prose -
i want to be a good listener,
but i’m selfish. i want to be likeable,
but i’m stuck in muds of misery.
losing the best parts of me
to insecurity and the instagram bots
that like his posts before i do.
how can i compete with algorithms and
softer blondes, waves that glide so gently -
i am a car crash, the intersection preacher,
the storm before the calm, but the calm too.
i want to disappear, i want to be gone,
but there’s always something left to say.

the afternoon fell like a slate of snow,
tumbling off the rooftops,
a cool haze of memories of the year -
flashing moments of serenity, pain,
and all the stupid ways i’ve loved -
lost and found. if i am anything,
let me be resilient (and humoured) -
this year was an underground parking spot,
takes me 3 point turns, and 20 minutes,
but in the end i get it done, and spend
another 20 minutes laughing about it.
i dance with you to Usher in the car,
water my plants with conviction -
i’m not sure what the plans are now,
i don’t know what the time is,
i’ve just been learning how to be,
authentic and optimistic -
all i have is hope for the new year,
but when i run out of that too,
i have my resilience to keep going.

the pleasure is in seeing it as it is,
nothing too magnified to believe otherwise,
all of my life knotted into ties of normalcy,
and sometimes muddled mistakes.
it's often not as complicated as they'd think -
just a morning coffee with hot chocolate and
your hands around my torso at 7:15AM,
maybe, the sound of streetcars and yelling preachers,
often the typing of my keyboard writing poems at work.
i think it's easy to make life complicated,
glaring at the tripping of stairs, miscommunication,
the way the barista moved in slow motion.
somewhere between mistaking salt for sugar,
we forget that cortisol is the quickest death -
every time we choose anger we choose our own demise,
the pleasure is in seeing it as it is,
a pleasant mess, with a sense of humor.

to them i am an option,
something that happens conveniently,
only when it feels right, when it fits,
falling into places like a turning Tetris block.
and how many things do you think about,
before you get to me? your family portrait,
hiding me, and their priorities like poison,
and to another i’m just a muse, sitting
top shelf liquor, glistening in the parlour,
a sweet banana whiskey stirring gently.
only for special occasions or birthdays,
life keeps turning without my help.
but somehow i don’t like centre stage either -
not the manic pixie dream girl, not
the girl next door - just, not quite necessary.
i want to be seen in a different light,
but i’m not in need of another casting call -
i could put on an amazing performance,
i could play all the roles, but in their life,
well, i’ve just settled for a footnote.

light fragrant cologne, wide cappuccino cups,
rainy afternoons, and somber evenings, warm soft grips, velvet couches, and awkward silences, four legs fitting closely, overwatered money trees, church bells, crossed arms, rude tones, relentless giggles, prolonged eye-contact, tacos, the funny buzzer entrance, tears, riding skateboards home, watching art, park walks, dinner in, conspiracy videos, avoidance, breakfast sandwiches, fancy pants, cringe sayings, dad jokes, detachment, attachment, week night calls, impromptu singing, the neighbours parties, your friends drama, my friends drama, our drama, impulsive confessions, snapchat streaks, warehouse keyronas, tiny donuts, documentaries, game of thrones, embarrassed, attractive, exciting, the body pillow, convience stores, your sweater, friendly debate, heated debate, resentment, come on in, open windows, open arms, hurt, resentment, the 501, and your oatmeal sweatpants

when it arrives at dawn i’ll be waiting,
holding out the warm towel for comfort,
adding kindling to the slights and edges,
warming up the kettle for it.
i sit in my virtue and signal peace,
transition crossed arms to open up,
staring out at the human messes and
cognitive dissonance in the shape of pride.
we are meant to be glass filed down,
weathering and eroding by oceans of
doubt, fear, insecurity, and ego.
pains of which i gave up long ago -
i am lucky that i don’t need it to come,
because i love so deeply that it burns me,
saving them the third-degree.
they ask for forgiveness, not permission -
and i don’t ask for anything at all.

this year i don’t want any games,
or the off-brand Dyson,
or for him to text me back.
I don’t want my health either, or
the loud lobby music at work,
not the invite to the holiday party.
I don’t want the short ugly uggs,
the pastel candle stick holders,
or the designer knit fits.
I don’t want to feel normal,
like i’m eighteen and self-assured
when everything made sense
because i didn’t know anything anyways.
I don’t want the sweet nothings,
or coal in the place of consistencies -
I just want some chocolate,
and maybe my masters degree.

they have it easier than me,
gliding through conversations
with 20 new strangers, holding
a prosecco glass like a microphone -
a IMBD celebrity on a month long press tour.
eye contact measured, smiles firming,
questions deliberate and timed out.
while i become too conscious of the way
my arms cross, pants bunching up weirdly.
am i being awkward, can they hear me
thinking? do they feel this way too?
aware how they stare too long or too little,
often forgetting how sentence structure works, or if what they said was rude?
if this were a poem, somehow
this all would make me sound earnest,
but instead i’m here, off-putting, seemingly reflecting disinterest, instead of fear -
introspection kills the conversation again,
i must have used the wrong face this time.
i shudder in madness another night,
and await to replay it all again in the shower.

i wanted you there
i wanted you to want to be there

the market was covered with silver,
old vintage lighters and hellish hipsters,
you asked me what my problem was,
when we stood there in the mirror,
staring at reflections of hands intertwined,
your feet already cold and staggered.
i said, the issue is i don’t have any
when we’re standing here together.
oh i thought - just give me one good reason.
i want the idea of you more than i want,
steadfast peace and solitude, stable,
sometimes forgetting what alone feels like,
knowing that i’m still able.
i should probably leave us here -
but, knowing that i’m too stubborn,
to let bygones be byes and gones,
still lingering into a prolonged exit -
so i stay with you another month.
i’m never gonna love anything good for me,
centrifuging parts of my identity,
pretending i’m not attached to concepts
and hefty bets on changes -
and it takes one to know one,
so i see right through you,
now i don’t even know your address.