irises search for attachment in hopes,
caring arms to tell you your qualities.
do you need them to remind you?
behind everything good there is ego,
for every mirror, we see god staring back,
we only know others as deeply as ourselves.
i look every now and then for their help,
but i always end up back alone with a pen,
do you need me? because i need me first.
we've barely met, but she seems half-decent.

i’ve looked within myself,
self-help books become my mirrors,
character twisting into ugly shapes
of what i could have done wrong?
i keep looking for something,
but forgetting why i entered the room,
and they sit watching me search,
for human errors and common ailments,
that i quickly diagnose as disease.
i can’t keep a straight face,
stroking my ego to ted talks and podcasts,
while arguing about the colour of the sky.
what if i’ve never been a problem,
frankenstein wasn’t the creation,
he was the creator.

We belong in this time
of wonder and questioning,
calling strangers home,
and dripping wax seals
on unsent DM's to Diplo.
My algorithm is broken
because I felt safe with you,
after we swam naked in the
Mediterranean Sea at 3AM,
and gave up on planning.
We belong to the sweaty beats
at Electric Island, and the
voices that tell us to slow down.
My voice is broken but bold,
carrying you to solutions
that look like truths.
We belong to no one
but ourselves.

you love to kiss my stern mouth
when i rip up in passionate graces
but i am not a mistake, i promise
i am an awfully good learner

still i wait on your patient notices
any slight gesture to ask for more
a longer goodbye that lasts four hours
so you can kiss my smiles to form more

do not get too close
to the one you love
for they have out grown
what you may become
they have their own thoughts
opinions may vary
love is grand
but it can be scary

icarus loved the sun
he gallantly flew
to hold what he loved
to find further truths
he just got too close
what can one do
love is something dangerous too

when you love someone
don't get too close
their thoughts are their own
their space is uncut
be cautious with your questions
your proximity can lose
but don't get too close
you might get burned too

To protect your laugh,
sacred gleaming subtleties.
Your pink flushed cheeks,
with dots too often observed.

The innocence of turquoise walls,
where do your bones lie?
Past reminiscent of a 1gb USB -
my closet is stuffed and cracked open,
their mixtapes in alphabetical order.

To protect your honour,
softly sharing my heavyweights.
Your pink flushed lips,
with softness never overlooked.

I'm here at Girl Guide camp sitting by Lakelet Lake watching trees and water in a tête-à-tête, and I am simply an observer. Dull humming surrounds me and fills the air, pushing against my light golden locks that appear before the end of each bright summer. I am younger here, sixteen again and pulsing with light, evoking and echoing spirit. My legs are light too as I approach the edges of a tall birch dock that make the water seem like a steady pool without gleam. I find myself plummeting forward into it, water filling my ears and holding me close. The jump is always the worst part of this lake, the cold lasting, but it's a jump I've made before and it has to be sudden. You can sit there and deliberate the temperature, but you know you have to go in, so you surprise yourself. I quickly feel airy and steady once I make it, you do not need control for this. The water stays timid and vulnerable, I have good intentions. The breeze caresses my face, like a crack between the jet way and the jet, you smell the air blasting through the seam and you have your goodbye, touching the frame of the plane as an omen. My mom does not romanticize this moment, anxiety ridden and terrified of flight, but she touches the plane anyways. There's something to be said about being so sure. Is it romantic to know everything? I don't think so. People who are mostly sure are mostly boring, or maybe those people are floating somewhere too. My best friend Olivia appears before me, she sits perched on the dock and dips her toes in the green. I ask her if she can see anything going on through the lake. She responds, "nothing really". "Just old cottages and old people. Lily pads too".  I look an arm's length away as she said they were resting and find nothing, she must have lied, she knows I love Monet. I keep swimming out a bit further but can't make anything out. No houses, no sweet leathery old people with sun spots, just sun and whispering willows. My arms eventually grow tired and I have no choice but to steady on my back. I lay there, and I float a minute longer, just long enough to acknowledge that I feel nothing in this water. I can't even disassociate where my hands and the water meet, but they're shaking hands anyways.

they like to tell me
that rejection is redirection,
so my tears turn shorter,
that my energy should draw
on the men who reciprocate

you’re at your sisters apartment
snorting a line of coke,
listening to ajuna beats loudly,
looking for my instagram
to ignore my text messages

Let them put me in my dry grave
with whispers of how much I meant,
and how little to show for it.

Give him red roses like my tattoo -
the same one my father had warned
would last forever.

Put bold ink in my obituary -
and let my mistaken mother
misspell my degree.

They can finally paint my long nails pink
and cover me in
compliments of untimely character.

Or my great grandmother Elizabeths golden rusted rosary's.
My papa will finally have his Rose and Rosalia in one place.

I’ll finally talk to god
and tell him my name was meaningless
I don’t need a name to know the hells I came from.

But they sent me to heaven
only for what I stood for
only after I could
no longer stand it.

Rich rigid bricks,
your sheen green cat eyes.
Your mom’s huevos rancheros -
spilling into noons.

Fireplaces off the window panes,
crisping open a warm chest
for a bed of new delights.
Dozing in my ice sheet hands -
I was meant to be bitten,
then bitter.

Lips pushed their forgetful illusions,
His rememberable forehead lines -
tasking away at lost minutes
of too many 14 hour days.

Here between long firm legs
lying in your large white cottons,
over collections of moles,
and forests of scars.

Wondering if she hurt you
in the same ways
that he hurt me.

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.

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.

i want an anchor,
a steady, heavy, rain
down on me, catch.
soft talons to grab my
flesh, keeping me.
above air or under.

tender winds pushing,
never falling through.
charging at amity
crashing into loves embrace.

If we fell together tumbling
for every fist shattered.
Punching holes in ourselves
for every season changed.

We would miss all the breadth
of our own paths travelled.
Tearing apart at the new loves
we didn’t know we made.

When digging our holes
on a strangers grave.

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.

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.

i should be crying in a taxi
from the toronto cobbled streets.
but i’m laughing with my friends
in an old stable pub in PC.
tonight i choose me,
i leave you behind a final time.

the love that turned to
half efforts and ice,
in under three months.
i have learned to be okay,
that i cannot choose
to love someone who
sees me as an inconvenience.

i am older and stronger now,
my boundaries and honest worries
are not manipulation tactics.
my sensitivity makes the coffee,
pays the hydro bills,
and gets you through 2 unemployment cheques.

now you have your fatal 9-5,
and the security to leave me.
all i can say to you is,
your 29 with the emotional intelligence
of a 19 year old.

the seven season show
is coming to an end
four months out of
a massive break up
new chapters start for me
the final episode airs tomorrow
i pack up to my masters in Waterloo
i become another version of myself
a grown adult woman
she has her **** together
i am a home owner now
i am so confused
how to pay any bills
i can't pay you any respect either
does Rory end up with Logan,
or does she choose her career?
I choose myself.

A single silver diamond
hangs from my neck,
as a reminder that I have been
building myself to last.

I have built me from nothing,
but bold words and raw emotions,
laid out like cards I keep getting dealt.

I have been mistakenly honest,
perfectly wrong, and dreadfully me.
All to benefit the terrible good
you keep on feeding me.

Succumbing to willful devotions,
heavenly honours, and beautiful
crystals.
I have loved me far longer, and
far stronger.
Than I could ever love you
my green emerald.

I wanted him strolling through
the lightnings.
Leftover lessons ones I didn't feel
like teaching.
Ones you pick up on the way home,
at Gerrard & Church,
         Streambank & Lornewood.
"Is he gonna be the one
made for you,
         or are you gonna build him."
I never studied architecture.
I never liked small talk
         about overcast weather.
and I never thought love was built

                                    only gathered.

I hope you feel the warm cracked skin,
thumbs that twiddle against you,
in spaces that were once cold.
Woven grains of sweet serenity,
made of golden locks with bold initials.
Because initially you weren’t yourself.
And today you are something much better.
You hold a room like you’re a guest,
a door like it’s a sincere promise.
Taking care of rough details in harmony,
and together you are dignified softly.
Only to open the next.

i laugh and take a sip of air
the taste of my blood has a ting of iron
the snows starting to stain a passionate red, and so are my lips
i manage to get on my back, and make out the sky
its the only thing that isn't red
1,2
i reach for the park bench to my left and i ***** underneath it, twice
under my breathe i whisper “keep pushing” to the patch of grass beside me
i admire its determination through a rough winter, i think i hear it say “hold in there”
3,4
to my left i see black, but its a blue kind of black, a nice change from accustomed red
i soon make out the figure, i look up at the sky again, i don't want to be seen like this
then their feet quicken, and i manage to calm my breathing as the steam from their mouth escapes them, glistening in the air
5,6
i repeat the words “keep pushing” in my head, as stable arms take my weight
over his shoulder i see the patch of grass, i wave goodbye, ill see you again soon old friend
he smells like sugar, i whisper to him “im sorry”, his shirt used to be white
7,8
i tighten his neck and manage to gain sight of the distance
i close my eyes for only a second and wake up in my bed, new sheets
i whisper hello, but get no reply, probably for the best, i wouldn't want to wake my parents
9, 10
i wake up around 6am to the sound of gusting wind, goodbye friend i think to myself
beside me i find a glass of water and a single advil, i reach to grab the water, and a note falls out
it reads: “this is the last time laura”
i laugh and take a sip of water.

i rubbed your back
as we broke up
i packed you a bag
you called me babe
even through then
wanting to be something more

i did your laundry
that you left here
you’re in ibiza now
posting money pictures
looking past me
wanting to be someone more

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.

I am made of wilted spinach,
soaking in my grandmothers cast iron.
I am craving the hot and heavy words
they feed me.

I am not your songbird,
floating high among the daisy beds.
I am jersey sheets, thick Croatian prayers,
the sharp steady edelweiss
lasting.

I am my Dante Mary’s willowed secrets.
Soft and pillowed – my voice cranked,
trying to reach further than they told me.
I am my grandmother’s angel,
but I am down on earth

crusted.

Trailing rigid yellow satin robe,
you have hugged my curves the longest
and felt the way I leave the grounds running.

Traveling up and down my long lean legs,
and the lower United States too.
I am a mess they do not dare quantify.

Towering my misspoken 2AM un-sents,
the half licked envelopes of Sunday's unrest.
Over detailed lines of over stated emotions layed.

Taking a moment to mention the mourning
of my lost ability to create more than myself.
Maybe it is not what i've created, but when.

Tasking away to write more than i should know,
they tell me that I have never really known.
But what do they know?

Tenaciously giving life to words with low meaning,
streaming about the lines I weave whilst sneering.
I am not livid, but I have been alive.

i crave your eyes
the soft look of wanting
slowly teasing
around my legs,
watching me laughing
with my girlfriends

i take a sip of gin
and pull you into
my magnetic gaze
shifting focus onto
the dj playing
techno beats

and you’re still watching

me

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.

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.

Metal grinds quietly,
snapping branches,
holding ash on rubber.
Spinning wheels take us
on the long trek home.
I trust your spirit,
you look at me kindly.
Navigating our love
to the old cabin,
where we play Clue.
Giggling in our autumn
toques by a fire.
Kissing under resolutions.

Hookup culture is a beast I cannot tame.
Drawing at my insecurities
again, picking and gnawing.
Nothing will be left now,
except the empties from the party.

My cellphone rings,
and it feels like nothing.
Pushing buttons and
overdrawn lipstick.
Bite it anyways,
apply the waterproof.

I’m gonna get it tonight.
Catch a feeling or two
Teach a lesson or three,
And for the first time –
Teach you to understand human emotion,
empathy,
and too often the human cry.

I won’t steal your keys,
and make you walk home.
But if you leave me with the Cherry pits,
the bill, or the half-smiles,
you’ll be lucky to leave with your sweater.

I am a terrible girl,
but a great date!

you call me a hopeless romantic,
but at least you’re calling,
and you’ve been right for the first part,
because only an idiot hopes for things
like kisses in a BMW over french rap and
broken sentences at midnight.
the muted expressions between
muffled apathetic prose of wanting.
and i can’t help but believe i deserve otherwise,
indifference and cold shoulders.
instead i’m confused with what it means,
saying things i don’t mean.
reading between lines of madness
to guess peoples feelings -
why am i always surprised, crushes hurt.

will they always be callous and unfeeling,
cold shouldered and brooding,
teeth clenching at what's most logical?
and if this, then am i the climactic contrarian -
carrying every emotion so viciously,
that you tell me, i must be lying?
it's okay that i will never know peace like them.
because when i feel a strangers sigh,
a mothers eyes watering tightly with her pram,
the business mans shoulders folding into himself,
i can barely escape the envelopments of living.
some days my tears fall because of their pain,
on good days they pool because of an embrace,
and few days they fall for the discontented,
because what a sad life to only feel for yourself.

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.

i used to trace stars
around your spaces
& kiss your neck with hope
now i’m doing shrooms,
getting a masters diploma,
& listening to too much Lorde

It’s in a secret folded letter,
in a book somewhere.
Building dust in your,
crusty childhood trauma.

Words like “I’m sorry that
we couldn’t fit together”.
Maybe “I’m sorry that they
didn’t teach you to love better”.

It might say that I just
want you to finally be happy.
You’ll think that’s another one
of my unforgettable darling lies.

But the anger I’ve been feeling
is completely unforgivable.
Making no better reason
to relentlessly forgive.

Seeking lustful validation
is probably my sin.
Seeking your forgiveness
is probably my mistake.

But time is always our cruelist
and truest confessors,
and I have never been betrothed
to anyone, but the truth.

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.

i don't want you,
not really,
i just want a compliment,
and some matty's patty's,
and i want to kiss you,
so maybe hold you?
okay we could walk
to christie and
talk about our feelings
i don't want you,
not really,
okay but maybe we could
go see the new marvel movie
and laugh at failed CGI...
then touch knees on the curb -
don't patronize me
and make me feel seen,
tell me about your
childhood dreams
okay i want you,
but not really???

Quiet Easters awake the spirit
in a shiny April dusk.
Where you call him "Baby"
by Mum's purpled hydrangeas.

Crossing many desolate fields
in hopes of finding cheerful Forget-Me-Nots.
You have found sorrowful stories
of holy ghosts arising,
and then falling.

Spilling out
of passing spring dwellings,
with trees holding far too many rings.
Strong and sturdy,
yet knocked down for a pretty penny.

I wish we could be
milled, burnt, and wrote on.
Growing out of muds
like the words on this paper.

Like mother nature,
I've been fooled into thinking
I was more than I am.
But only until man makes me,
something I am not.

If I could plan forever,
have carbon copies to the keys,
of the open hardwood doors,
to the new loves never seen.
I would create endless mood boards
for the heartaches every night.
Put playlists together,
for the good days out of spite.
(and pre-order Kleenex on Amazon Prime).

If I could plan forever,
there would be an anonymous “him”,
and we’d own like 7 succulents,
all 10 inches thick.
I would make him morning tea,
and he would try to make my day.
Put my miseries at Bay,
(cause he’s probably a swimmer but I don’t know that yet -)

If I could plan forever,
own a personality I liked
share the shining mirror with her,
knowing she had a creative side.
I wouldn’t need to be planning,
for the heartaches and the rent.
I would just put on my playlist,
and listen Today instead.

if i have a daughter,
will she have my thin hair
and sneer at social niceties,
will she hug strangers tightly,
or hide in the corner at awkward parties?
would she have called him back,
or blocked the number, before
it all got so bad.
if i have a daughter,
will she have my imagination
and mold words into minds,
like holding onto herself wisely,
carrying confidence that glides past,
those who haven't met themselves?
or will she trust in the bigger picture, before
it ever gets taken.

if i was your type
would i be smaller than you in stature
the force of my words softer,
my thoughts easier to live under?
if i was your type
would i be a light read?
the picture painted black and white,
while my greys keep growing with age.
if i was your type
the stress of a minimum reaction
feels more natural than breathing,
the double texts reciprocal.
if i was your type
would you want me then,
in the same ways that i want,
for only the sake of company?

you broke my heart on a wednesday
i cried it out for nine days,
and let it go because i had no other choice.
you hugged me goodbye in the wrong way,
and told me you still loved me.

you're running in etobicoke on a thursday
i am buying my own apartment,
and kissing another tall kind man.
you text me about the yeti cooler we bought,
and tell me that you're proud of me.

i don't think about you at all.

To you my cellulite
is just pebbles on Sauble Beach,
and my baby hairs,
frame the best parts of me.

Sharing a bed with you
is like floating in water,
and let me tell you,
I could never be more shore.

our battles are often fought
with our hands tied behind our backs
because no one ever sees
perception holding you up for grabs

in your fight with varied outlook
your opponent will be torn
due to their lack of better judgement
or the opinions that they've sworn,

were completely right to begin with
don't disregard these facts
if i talk in this particular tone
what kind of purpose does it have?

the answer is: it doesn't
have a purpose or a gain
unless you're one for false politics
then continue on in vain

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.

When have I not been all of me
to soothe all of you.
Loving you past insecurity,
rubbing your back in
my small dim lit room.

I would have given you
my holy Sundays,
my boring Mondays,
and both my shoulders.
Just to hear you say,
“I Love You.”

Worth loving through
the doubts and terrors.
But I dream still,
of waking up on an August Monday.
Drinking coffee alone
feeling worth more than money.

Sitting in a green bright café,
rubbing my toes in anxiety.
Loving me past insecurity,
and still soothing all of me.

When have I not needed all of you?
I guess I’m learning to find that out.

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

smelling your back
as i hold you into my body,
loving you quietly,
rubbing your shoulders
as you fall gently to sleep.
picking up the lint in the morning,
and folding your laundry.
remembering your sisters
birthday from last week,
that you forgot a gift for,
like the flowers i wanted
for my masters acceptance,
was your love lost in the mail too?
i gave you safety and comfort,
you gave me distain and distrust
with a twisted sense of humour