i’m more human than you are
more human than your wickedly
accentuated cheekbones
the hair that falls in clumps above
your eyebrows
has more life in each strand
than you have in your entire body
your charcoal colored locks
that get lightened in the sunshine
gather more oxygen
than your own lungs can inhale

i’m more human than you are
when i laugh, i can’t breathe
when i’m anxious, i feel inches away
from death
it lingers in the pockets of the heat
it traps inside my airways
yet, i can breathe finer air than you

even though the haze upon the horizon
blocks traffic, makes people stop for a second
it is more alive than you’ll ever be
it winds and dips and turns
flowing through the atmosphere
creeping down the downtown streets
yet, it’s more awake than your resting body

and i understand this might be
a touchy
subject for you
but you need to let the air stay in your lungs
for more than a millisecond
let it sizzle inside your skin
feel your vessels and veins shrink and grow
let the blood flow reach your panicked head
let it expand inside your brain
and feel the cells chatter and goop
like water

you’re more human than you think
yourself to be
more raw and real and vigorous
you have a soul buried in your eyes
unlike the caterpillars chewing on
plants who only do it to keep their
species thriving
you’re a human who can extend their limbs
to reach the furthest lengths
your heart can think to be
bursting with life

i’m still more human than you are
this pen i was locked in
stuffed my self esteem
but i’m still breathing, aren’t i?
i can chase the wonky walking warbler
i can lie
between blades of grass
letting the earth sink into the linings
of my skin
even though an itch might bust through
i still find a way to absorb the
outside weather
the humidity and the direction the
wind is blowing, or choosing to travel

you’re more human than you think
can retreat from out of you
breathe, and maybe the cricket chirps
will make you resort back to
rolling down hilltops or
jumping off rugged cliffs
next time when you jump
internalize it
and maybe next time
imagine you’re a sparrow for a second
tasting the air, as the water embraces you
and calls your name
so,

                          answer back

dynamite with purple eye
bags
sweating through the steamy night
glad
you came here with your raspberry lies
mad
in stuck suburban side
tad
bit on the fiery side
like
dynamite
kryptonite
tnt
confide in me
lucid dreams
paranoid screaming through tiny teeth
sad
you didn’t want to plummet
back
into purple eye
bags
dynamite
drags
on cigarettes
and chloroform eye-
lids
bad
luck and stuck with dynamite
kryptonite
explosive nights
raspberry lies
hazardous tries
and over the top
mad
ness
and the fear of being a reject
with eruptive tendencies
toxic needs
and a little bit of tnt
lack
of relatability
and dynamite
mad
this world is too
sad
to be blowing stuff up right now
but
glad
there isn’t a frenzy of deadbeats
only purple eye
bags
and would
haves
and tnt

you know,
it’s not easy
to be a woman
with a gunshot wound
and torn wings
on her back.
it’s not easy to
love a woman
who spins
in circles
and acts
like a maniac.
it’s not simple
to exist
in the poetic
tenebrosity
of this
era of living.
there are
hearts
shrouded with
darkness
pierced with
the tongs of their
garden rakes.
there are heads
on stakes
that never got
to stand
away from the
shadows,
shadows that were
casted upon them
for no reason
but that they
were labeled
evil, and so
they thought
they were,
they believed
they were,
they knew
they were.
it’s not easy
to be a person
with an honest
heartbeat on
the drug, littered
and pest invested
streets.
it’s easy,
(apparently),
to go about your
day without
even processing
the torture
some souls
go through just
for their eyes
to never be opened
for
their hearts to never
be warmed
with the
same blaze
you set in your home
to make it feel
all cozy and aesthetic
around the
holiday season.
it’s easy
to turn a blind
eye, to deny
the vile nature
of the bones that
outline souls of all
kinds of barbaric
creatures.
it’s easy to
look upon
it with a grimace,
with a dishonest
appeal to
strengthen the
crevices of
your heart that you
have to fulfill
to prove to some
entity of yourself
that you are a
kind person.
that you aren’t
selfish and
unsparing.
but is it working?
cause although
i see the flames
in your brownish
quite convincing eyeballs
i do see help,
i do spot the parts
of your sweet heart
in your retinas
undamaged by the
bright sun,
i do see the
endearment
lay claim on
your lips.
i see it.
i see it all.
it’s not easy
being a human
in a world where
opportunity only
comes to those
who only see
because they are
told to,
that only see what
they are told
that they can see,
and they hear
what they are
bound to hear
and so on.
it’s not easy
to crawl on
your fractured knees
and twisted ankles
in a pit of
venomous vipers.
it’s so easy
to see the crime,
the shame,
the atrocities,
and try
nothing to stop it.
it’s not easy
being a man
with gunshot wounds
in a combative
ill-conducted
circus,
navigating his
way through
the scattered
yelps of his
brothers
who got lost
in the shadows
and never returned.
you only hear
what you want
to hear.
the truth
aches more
than shoving a
rocket ship
up your runny
nose and
for valid reasons.
don’t shut out the voices of your own children, Society.
don’t separate the stories
of those
who will end
their lives being
ignited in the same
fire, in the exact
same
flame
that touched
the skin of
the silent pleading
children
who were never understood
of the people who
wrote a trillion words
and still weren’t heard
of the vagabonds
that were
casted out of
their villages and
wandered so far
that they lost
sight of who they
were.
some songs
are never
sung,
some instruments
broken and never
played,
millions of killers
never
prosecuted,
victims that
never got their
justice,
some babies never
born,
tens upon thousands
of lifetimes
forgotten.
some darknesses
are too violent.
some corruption
too manic.
it’s not easy
being a human
with bullet wounds
and
gashes
on our backs.
the shadows
of the universe
make us maniacs.
you reap
what you sow,
and you’re gonna
have to battle
millions of
justifiably
angry revolutionists…
so do you want to do this
the easy way,
or the hard way?
pick your machine guns that will always run out of bullets,

we will always have our voices.

those deep fangs
pressing upon pale purple skin
that poison,
damp on your tongue,
hitting the roof of my mouth
violently and persistently

you patronizing pain inflicter
with that wicked soul
pursing red velvet lips
drooling at the sight
of a fresh-blooded miss

the girl with a smile carved upon her cheeks
those golden-stalactite eyes
dripping rain residue on this coarse body

that cold-blooded smirk
impermanent generosity,
one side grinning,
the other frowning

you vile human  
with hair oddly blond like blinding light
those fluids dripping from your lips
irregular breathing patterns

you’ve made this fever festering inside me
feel like happiness
you’ve made this uninhabitable cavern
into something so familiar one can’t quite place
you’ve made me bleed from these eyelids

and feed it straight to you
like i am some chess piece
in some childish game for you
but i cannot stand this
and no i will not keep humoring you
i will use this body
for something other than for you

-(read the text in the parentheses if you care hehe)

the gates are opening
and—i don’t mean to sound crass
but the tainted and staggering woman
and the saturated spineless specimen
are ****** and plastered with poison
their corpses are decorated in holly leaves
they won’t be eligible to enter
i hate to be the pointer
the dog in the marsh
but their faces are melting
like molten lava
they will bring this disease through
the golden gates agape
i promise i am not the
burner-at-the-steak-er
i won’t aim the musket
with silver bullets
at them
and their porcelain skin
their lies are painted on them
my sore eyes make assumptions
i am shaking my throbbing finger
at your dismayed face
claiming the woman with the
squid-like back
shouldn’t enter the golden gates
but i am here
the hypocrite of the century
taking accountability
but only in privacy
i should be tossed out of the
weightless sky
not banging the gates loudly
declaring that i have a ticket
when the man in the front
says i am denied access
shrieking
demanding
appalled
who am i to say you won’t
be entering the king’s castle?
who am i to judge a soul
just as damaged as mine?
these gates were destined to
keep out stragglers
strangers
thieves
but we are catfighting
because we both think
our ways are more superior
this is such a waste of energy
how dare us both avouch
that our paths to our houses
are the correct ways to travel
ah—yet he took the road less traveled by
and surely got through
to the other side
i might know for sure
that i have the right code
to the front door
but i shouldn’t assert my dominance
on such a similar being as me
leave it up to the guard
(the one with slicked back hair
and a watercolor smile
the one with medallion teeth
and jewelry sculpted from
lemon grass, brass and gold)
at the opening of the golden gates
to call upon us disoriented people
(or illusions as i call us)
and punish and kiss and love and miss
those who
are plunging to their eternal death
the guard will decide
and i don’t think i will make it out
fully alive
or at least without a single rash
or cause of decay
or a single slap on the back for
not trying hard enough
(not a pat on the back as i would
hope for at minimal
for
getting to breathe
the same air as saints and
“paying their way” passengers)
but anyway
the women and i will give
each other fair grins
and maybe even shake twisted hands
mending the wounds we caused
by (maybe) being ignorant?
my wings will start to be restored
but i know i will probably
tumble to my eternal demise
just like the same people
who tried to dictate
other’s lives
or tried to play the guard
in a playwright
dangling the keys
but not taking the time to
review the sign up sheets
hypocrites!
(i included)

isn’t it strange that we don’t name ourselves?
because if i had the choice, i would be named: the girl with wavy or curly hair that never belongs anywhere
or the girl who believes in God more than herself
the girl who fears rejection like it is Covid-19
the girl who wished upon a star, but is still waiting on her delivery
the girl who is senseless who knows nothing about anything
the girl whose best friend left her when she was thirteen
the girl who associates made up or distant people with safety and security
the girl who listens to too much music and it clouds her judgment
the girl who re-enacts movies after she sees them play onscreen
the girl who gets lost in Disney movies and doesn’t enjoy reality
the girl who died after eighth grade and is despising the high school experience
the girl who purposely curses herself on friday the thirteenth
the girl who lost her mind and has lost all her glory
eruption, disaster, ugly, failure, useless, dramatic, romantic, not even close to funny, unintelligent, boring, exhausting to be around, psychotic, waste of space, crazy
the girl who is anyone, but what my parents named me
the girl named…

I haven’t liked anyone in a really long time
   I mean, in person, in real life
I’m afraid of chasing ignorance
Or waiting for the traffic light to turn green
       So I can run so fast that my legs wish they
    Were broken
              You probably don’t even know
    That when I see someone I’ve seen for a
         Minute
    I get those old crush, soda can moments
               I don’t even like them
It’s as if the spring wind impresses
      Me now
               When before I was astonished by how
       The snow glistened when the sun shined
     Or how I fell into your arms
          Begging for a lifetime
  But I would only get a measly line.

am i inherently evil cause of my skin color?
do these blue eyes define evil in the shadow of brown eyes?
why must i feel ashamed for my pale skin?
i didn’t chose to be in this body.
didn’t chose to look this way.
half of the time i wanna punch myself in the face and turn purple so my skin color doesn’t protrude through my clothes.
i wanna hide in my blankets, cover my head with a bucket, my legs with a floor length gown.
i hate who i am.
i hate who i am.
i hate who i am.
i hate who i am.
i hate who i am.
i hate who i am.
i hate who i am.
let me be someone else.
someone with browner eyes.
someone with black flowing hair.
someone with darker skin.
someone with more joy.
someone from a place prettier than here.
i hate who i am.
i hate who i am.
i hate who i am.
i hate who i am.
i hate who i am.
i hate it.
i hate it.
i absolutely hate it.

you want to see me stripped on the floor
a motor of a girl gasping for breath
crawling with her blistered knuckles
her wounds harsh and fresh
can’t you just breathe in deeply?
exhale, then inhale me
oh, for your sake baby
push it in then leave me diseased
you only see a body
you only see a body
you only see a body
you only see my body


—i wish so hard that you would just see me

i could never touch anyone with holy hands
with sacred blood dripping onto my feet

i could touch someone with hateful hands though
these tortured hands that i never chose in the first place

some say God isn’t real
but i see, hear, smell, feel Him EVERYWHERE,
EVERYWHERE He walks, every path His holy feet tread

He didn’t give me holy hands
but He gifted me a holy heart
a heart that loves every little inconsistency in humanity’s despair-filled eyes
and maybe i don’t like myself too much
but that’s because my heart is too holy
to brave my ugly touch

good souls live on, but so do bad ones
sadly
death lives on and life dies

my unholy hands will never be able to strip death from my skin
not even my holy heart could conjure up enough power to defeat such a tough barrier
   but maybe if i tried to find death, she wouldn’t want me to discover her

the buzz in my ear settles when i step foot in the garden i cultivated
out of my love for tranquility
i trace the water with my ***** fingers
and i replenish the desperate and diffident soul inside of me
clearing the scabs i collected from the hail storm
the rain never comes after
the clouds just stay dark, hovering around me
the clearing in the forest is just from demolition sites
the unholy hands of stone cold zombies chopped down these evergreen trees
holy hands could never do such a barbaric thing

some still say God isn’t real
but how can He not be
when i see Him in the wind, in the whispering creek, in the mountainsides, in the gold mines, in my mind, in the garden i cultivated myself with my two impious hands?

how can He not be real
when i hear Him in the silence, in the ruckus, in the schoolyard, in the pigeons flying across the city scapes, in my sister’s voice, in waterfalls, in “i love your outfit” compliments?

how can He not be real
when i have a holy heart?
who gave me these ventricles
these blood vessels, if not Him?
who gave me this haven, this place for my fears to be put to rest?
who sheltered my body when i was a complete mess, if not Him?
who never struck down on innocent men
but taught them how to enter the place of rest to inhabit for when their bodies are too frail?
how can He not be real?
you tell me

my holy heart will never shatter, will never be stomped on
by a bitter boy with blue eyes and a bad bearing
his fiendish hands shriek with iron vines cast upon his knuckles
in desperation, in trepidation, in complete and utter fear
i wish i could heal him with the touch of my hands
but they are unholy
and they aren’t worthy

i can place him in my garden, feeling God in every breeze that whooshes across the lawn
he’s asking, “why does this place feel so familiar?”

“i’m not sure,” i mumble as i clutch my chest, feeling my holy heart beat warmly for the first time in the longest time.

my sweet girl, you have broken me
in two, in three,
in a thousand shattered pieces
blowing in the wild winds.
i would like to love the impossibility of you
shamelessly diving into the body of water
that is you.

my sweet girl,
there will be no one left out there to
doubt you.
you'll be understood by those you
respect the most,
loved completely by the world that tossed
and turned you
like a bobbing ship on the open seas.

my sweet girl,
you'll be singing up tempo songs,
dreaming broadway dreams.
you'll be happy and without liver disease.
the panic will fall off your bones,
leaking into the clear shallow streams.

why, sweet girl, must you waste such a
beautiful existence hating yourself?
why must you deny yourself the love
you truly deserve?
why worry your mother to death?
oh, sweet girl,
why must you contain yourself for those
you have never met?
oh, sweet girl, when i saw you crawl out
of your cocoon, i wept,
for the change that would only make a greater world,
was finally appearing.

i’ve written about you
enough times to count on two hands now
but i do not want to be in love.
and i’ve said that one hundred times: you must be sick of hearing it;
i’m sick of me too.
i make myself sick
in every way
because i can’t write about you
in a poetic way
because the way we coexist isn’t poetic
in the slightest.
the way my eyes curl around the edges
is not poetic
in the slightest.
i am not enthralled with anyone.
i don’t carve initials into my spine
so i can be yours and you can be mine.
i am not obsessive.
i don’t know how to give myself away to others
to waltz on their stages
with ballet slippers.
i have no idea how to be in love with someone else.
i don’t need anyone else
to make me worthy in this world.
i don’t want anyone else
to make me worthy in this world.
i am worth the first breath of sunshine
without a man sitting on the park bench with me.
i am worth the months i have spent
aching for somebody else to make me whole again
but i am whole and complete and my own entity
and i love who i am when nobody is around
i love who i am when i am just by myself.

knife marks on my deadbeat frame.
lingering emotions
but they aren’t as excruciating anymore.
wasteful injustice, crawling up my veins.
digging holes in my white blood cells.
𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘰𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦.
𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵.
jokes on me, sunrise isn’t rebirth.
it’s rubbing it in your face
that the world doesn’t stop turning
for you, it never stops.
you never get help,
no matter how many buttons you press
or how many hand waves you give.
𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠.

what does this mean?
****** palms, downtrodden expressions?
i don’t want you to **** me
with your ****** palms and deep dagger-like fangs
pulsing veins are black
i’ve lost my home
do you think of me when the silence is all you hear?
perhaps lying there do i seem worthwhile even for a second?

disappearing in the labyrinth
you are still sick
within
the passageways are getting more narrow
your head is spinning
in confusion
your lips turn purple from shivering
your hands turn cold
the greenery gets more
and more
similar
each time
through each corner
the unlucky loser never left the labyrinth
so you stress out
thinking that your escape
is just a foreign idea
an impossible task
that’ll never be put into full effect
and the maze gets tighter
minute
by minute
perhaps the once fever
dream
is molding into a forever nightmare
the lonely labyrinth
wanted you as company
misery loves it dearly
so you are trapped in this network
of dips and turns
only the embrace of narrow paths
can soothe you from
your painful fate

in a floating metal box in the air,
i put things into perspective.
like our friendship.
a fading crisis murdered by a mistake.
sharp blades twisted against allies.
like words, exhausted and spoken with the threat of misinterpretation.
without your perfect band t-shirts and childlike bickering,
it was an empty place.
you only knew two AC/DC songs,
when i asked you to name three,
but that’s totally ok,
i wouldn’t have known or cared either.
friendly waves and funny conversations;
miss them most when there’s no one to talk to.
we starved the host and shattered slowly, but brutally.
against the ocean’s mighty waves, we were washed with white sea foam onto different beaches
on different coasts,
on different inhabited islands.
we lied hazily on tanned sand until the sun burnt holes in our dresses and melted us.
i search for you on the humid land mass,
calling your name into the neptune blue sky.
it’s always hope a new day, fire lit and burning, but nothing to come and rescue me.
scurrying in the hot sand praying for even just a mirage of you.
but we were swept away
to different islands,
unaware of the current,
unaware of the consequences of simple mistakes.
i’m sorry we had to burn out this way.
so slow and heavy.
so sorry, emery.

you know,
when i was young
i saw the world as a canvas.
a blank sheet of material waiting for my curious little fingers to touch,
to sculpt, to model.
and oh, did i paint.
i moved mountains with my palms, i made rivers flow with the touch of my hands
and you know what?
i thought myself a pretty esteemed artist.
i imagined my future living in a huge penthouse in the biggest city in the world i could think of at that age and that was
pittsburgh.
i would tower over the laborers and the tax workers and the mailmen and the street performers because i was the new “it” girl.
glistening in pearls above the city people who always take life so seriously.
inside of my kindergarten classroom,
i believed everything to be possible.
we learned about Noah’s ark and what two plus two was and i was smart
and quick on my feet
meanwhile some other child was crying and i couldn’t understand why because everything i could have ever wanted was displayed on the chalkboard in that very moment.
the world was a thousand colors in that classroom.
there were always crayons at my disposal, in which i used them to sketch part of the planet that was still blank on the canvas.
i believed.
i believed that Santa still existed and that the tooth fairy would bring me money instead of a tooth under my pillow but guess what?
i didn’t lose my first tooth until second grade.
back when the only worry i had was that my teeth weren’t loose and wobbly
back when the world looked friendly and the only things that were hostile were my pugnacious teeth that wouldn’t budge.
i saw skies where there were vicious mirrors, blessings where there were flaws.
my classmates were foolish but i-
i knew what i wanted my canvas to be.
but
soon
i
started
getting
older
and cancer was a real thing. violence was a real issue not just something i saw in a batman comic. society turned her back on the very children she birthed.
my hands stopped painting with bright colors.
highlighters were stolen out of my hands, pencils placed in them.
gray graphite with no emotion except “do this math problem or you will fail at a future.”
what future am i exactly preparing myself for at this speed?
what happened to the coloring books
and the watercolors and the all about me posters i made?
where did they go?
did they disappear into the void of shame?
because once the authorities took away my liberties; my freedom, i started slacking.
the world became a barren wasteland like the one after simba left the teeming pride lands.
bulldozed over.
all that creativity pent up in me..it had to be slaughtered.
it had to be executed.
so i breathed smoke to **** the formation inside of me
it choked, and so did i
and i
felt bad for it.
creativity was the one driving force, the one constant in my world that was falling apart and making room for the erratic world that punched through the walls of my love for the old world.
what would i be without a classroom full of tools that i could use whenever i saw fit?
this is insane.
people started coming into my life and out and i could not hold their hands and beg for their stay; they would leave me kicked and scarred
and maybe they whispered “sorry” to me because some of their empathetic nature still existed.
some of their light still hadn’t been stomped out.
it was fully wrecked when their parents got divorced
and there were screaming battles
and that’s when they heard that vile swear word that comes up in every conversation now as a teenager
and that word makes them upset
yet
they can’t remember why
just like their parents never understood why their child got so depressed jumping from house to house.
whiplash to the extreme.
and i can’t breathe without the creativity that connected the dots in my childish brain
and now being childish is an insult and i cross out all my experimental portraits and replace them with whatever the teenager next to me is drawing
because being original is easy to pick on.
and i didn’t want to be 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 kid.
no one wants to be 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 kid.
the canvas i once held in my hands is ashy and blackened and
unsalvageable.
its poor soul destroyed by a tiny bonfire by the woods
because no one likes when you decide you want to create the world in your image
cause it’s corrupted in everyone else’s
and they want you to suffer just like they did, to discover that innocence and ignorance are apparently now synonymous with each other and you can’t think otherwise!
what was looking at another kid’s artwork as a child?
there was only seeing that john had the color purple drawn on his paper
and sofia had the new stamps that were put up near the bulletin board.
that was all.
none of this body dysmorphic garbage.
the world isn’t beautiful as it was before on poster board and i don’t remember the last time i was truly physically and emotionally happy.
i now found the art of wanting to rip the hair out of my skull and there are times that i contemplate if i should just end it all,
but then i think back to all those years when i was younger and how big the world felt in my tiny fingers,
though i know—some tiny fingers build rocket ships, some tiny fingers get involved in cancer research to save other people from the same thing their grandparents had to battle with and lose to, some tiny fingers become doctors and nurses and good people with good hearts with hope for the restless world.
some tiny fingers might have lost the canvas and the poster board,
but they never lost sight of what world they were gonna leave an impact in,
what world they were gonna make great one day—one child with a crayon at a time.

the dance floor is crowded and the floor shines like it was freshly polished.
dresses fitted tightly and loosely, dresses purple, blue, yellow, unladylike.
hands moving like torpedoes, high kicks, deep dips, choreographed nonsense.
twirls, spinning in tent like shapes, hips gracefully swaying as the trumpets scream.
waltzing my way back into reality, into the arms of a familiar stranger.
clouded with the strawberry coated thoughts of a busted up balcony with my dance partner swinging me into a trance.
must have been love in the folds on your forehead, must have been love in the lights reflecting on the dance floor, must have been love in that gloomy air upstate, must have been love where i never saw it appear before, must have been love; nothing else has ever made me feel the same brilliant surge of energy as your touch on my back.
it must have been true love.

you were whisked away on a ship, bound for the treasure of the hidden world

i traveled to a desert
sweltering heat and cracking blisters
called your name as dry sand filled my esophagus
an oasis sprouted in the middle of the sandcastle civilization
running water, blue and hopeful
sprinting like a madman, i trekked towards my salvation
but when i came across its beckoning entrance
the mirage collapsed
the betrayal
my eyes had deceived me
in my consuming exhaustion, i had forgotten the illusions, smoke and mirrors the desert plays on you
and in being so crushed beyond belief
sandstorms came from under my feet
and, you know, the mirage became some
solidified reality
and
i
ache for it
with all my bones.

if only i were a crew member
aboard your ship to the galaxy
i was seconds away from boarding
five steps away
so close i could smell the saltwater as it caressed my cheek
waving goodbye to your face, decorated with sunlight
sun-kissed and golden.

the navigator of the seas
traveler with a sense of abandonment, on a sailboat gliding over waves,
glowing, evolving, flying
the sunset disappearing beyond the horizon,
where you chase the possibility of its various immensities
a rhythmic beauty, hung up in galleries, watching the waves lap against the shore
hands on her chin as she sits cross legged,
feeling the sand swirl around her  
she cups up the sand, as it vanishes slowly underneath her palms
sobbing into a pile of grief, so confined in a state of helplessness
she tumbles on the sand, silky hair falling to her sides under crescent moon design
and
she
aches for refuge
with all her bones.

now my veins are coursing with blood
taste it on my tongue
i can’t slow my pulse

he took my spine
and broke it in half
skipping heart inside my skin 
pounding
pounding
pounding
loud drums

the water towers i see from my bedroom window
to the storms you awaken in me
like bathing in chemicals
burning my skin
from within
why are his eyes so disjointed?
why do i sweat from my hands to my feet?
shuddering with anxiety
i’m so sick of having to give that disclaimer

do you feel my worry protrude from my speech?
the stuttering, the contemplation
i’m terrified i might say the wrong thing
so i don’t say anything
and hope the end passes
softly and—
i may have acted too hastily
shaking hands and paranoid and scared to bend my knees
cause someone might see
me
struggle
and then i’m ******* forever

and this attention, i’m not used to its hold on me
it feels threatening, can’t see the opening
at the end
of the tunnel,
vision is blinding me
what is a good moment to just say “no” out of the blue?
paralyzed with fear
maybe then you’ll know, it’s not worth it to even try with me
i hate hurting feelings, but this is hurting more than that
emails you sent me, just ask for my number
i could’ve given it,
but then i never would have texted
so you’d be
alone with yourself
and you’d have to be witty
i can’t see the future,
possibly
i might not want it to happen
so i try to push away
good things,
like they are mosquitos in the desert winds

but what are you attentive to on me?
for others have more than i do,
i’m poison ivy, i’m sticky glue
although once you have me,
i don’t want you
it’s like a burden, yet not how i treat you
is this too redundant or straight forward?
i’m sorry if this feels like torture to you
it feels much worse to me

maybe this is why i hate physics
the weird attractions
that happen
when you don’t even invite them in

when the wind whistles through,
poking, prodding,
doesn't even see
every minor infraction, even after plentiful inspection
in that it has touched me more than anyone,
has known which direction it would blow my hair
in that in no time has it made assumptions
nor presumed
only moved
about with a firm motion.
that just the other day, anger had gotten the best of me,
wishing the wind would stop reminding me of my existence
in that the bitter cold reminded me of every thought
that had been digging at the surface of my skin
and the wind did not know that i had not wanted
to be understood
in that moment.

i desired to be misunderstood,
a presence as unkempt,
as thoughtless, yet tender,
yet warm,
yet violent,
yet soft,
being able to know
the depth of someone's skin--their hair that stands on edge,
each scar and all its painful attachment,
each memory they've kept hidden,
that for some reason stay dancing on top;
and i stayed dancing
as the wind whistled
and
told me of my reasons
and didn't laugh
at a single one.

i wish this was the last thing i would ever write for you. i just wanna move on, but i watched you walk across the dewy lawn and i felt empty inside. ghost town vibes. it hurts seeing you be the life of the party, the happy one, the “gets out of situations so easily cause she’s so pretty.” being friends with you was so amazing and i wish i didn’t take it for granite (granted apparently) back then.
cause now i’m the loser and ashamed that i didn’t say hi to you. now i ignore your every move as if i don’t even know who you are and nobody even knows that we knew each other or were, oh my gosh—friends. oh wait, forgot one word, or two. best friends forever. bffs. we drew in notebooks together, went to the book fair and found little friendship books and wrote in them. we were attached at the hip, so incredibly close. why did we lose that connection? you have so many **** friends and i have nothing against them, i just wish they would help bring back our friendship. and i am sick and tired (exhausted) of seeing you in the halls and looking the other way or up at the ceiling. i am embarrassed that it’s come to this. avoiding eye contact because i fear you hate me, cause God forbid, you send me a single message saying, “you know, i hate to admit it, but i miss you and i wanna start over.” but no. and perhaps i’m coming to full terms with that. i guess the contract is over and the summer sun has sunken into the fortress of the creepy night. i’m fine. it’s just- you had your car and i wished to ride in the front seat jamming out to music before school and having study halls together and making friends together and being friends forever. but it’s ok. i realized true friendship doesn’t exist. it’s all an in the moment thing. they’ll say they wanna be friends forever, but once you move from the ground to the sea, you’ll never wanna be dry again. and i get it. my lungs are drowning in the water, but i still don’t wanna climb out before it’s too late. i’m so sorry

i met Good
oh, she was a beauty
she was so perfect, everything almost felt rehearsed
she sat down beside me, and handed me a cup of tea
and complimented the shirt i was cautious about wearing in fear of seeming unprofessional
her voice was smooth like silk
and her laugh was sweet like cotton candy and jolly like Santa Claus
she only told me fabulous news
news about how much she loved the world and how many people provided her joy
how a kindhearted gentleman saved a baby deer from a rabid bear
and she spoke with such eloquence that i couldn’t help but listen attentively
and i smiled
and smiled
the whole time we held the engaging conversation
when she and i bid our goodbyes, she kissed me on both cheeks and said i had beautiful decadently smelling hair
i smiled again for good measure
then i left

i met Evil
he grimaced as soon as he saw me
he seemed alarmed that someone wanted to have a word with him
i sat down without speaking and i let him start things off
he glared at me with discontent and didn’t crack a smile once
his judgy eyes shone on me and i felt insecure and confused
his voice was raspy and it sounded like he smoked frequently
his lips would curl up in disgust if i looked at him strangely, so i just watched the water bubble and churn in my cup
his body language showed malicious intent
but his eyes had some kind of spark in them
a light, a blue/violet light that overshadowed the deep dark brown eyes he bore
underneath it all, i am pretty sure Evil is just misunderstood
he isn’t all bad sometimes
he isn’t loving the bloodbath twenty four seven
so once i got up and whispered in his ear
“you aren’t all what you are cracked out to be, so just put the beating and stabbing devices away please.”
and i left without looking back

i met Indifference
now he was a doozy
he was nervous and shaky
it was painfully obvious, but i overlooked it
he half smiled sometimes
fake smiled to make me feel validated after i told a few icebreaking jokes
but sometimes he would watch me with a scornful face
so i fixed my posture and stopped conversing for a while, then began again
he never gave me an opinion or a complete response
it would always be “maybe,” “only time can tell,” and “i don’t really know.”
the vagueness of his disdainful answers fascinated me
how can someone remain neutral about everything?
he wasn’t at all like anyone i had ever met
his face was always neutral
his reactions never negative nor positive
and he showed confusion when i said things that were too passionate or too far sided
so i asked him a quick question
“what do you think is the right way? Evil or Good?”
his eyelids quivered and he shrugged with little effort or desire
“i don’t know.
i think we are all evil and good in our own ways.
you may think a rabbit is good by eating grass, but you are bad for eating animals, another living organism.
evil cannot be defined by bad where as good cannot be defined as the only way.
we are all mixtures of both.
therefore, that is why i am Indifferent.
i choose to be everything
and after all, good comes from wanting to be loved and valued in society, whilst evil mostly comes from being misunderstood and i am none of the sort.”

in the critical marsh of florida
he is still on the dock of the boat
cautiously & causally counting the cattails
poking up out of the half river half sea
half possibility
i am continuously confused with what you do
you were left by the marina
accidentally
and you reek of algae and a summer fling
while i participate in pretending just like your father did
losing your future to a buck of independence
lose your future to an underdressed miss
lose your future to me.

¿has olvidado la causa de tu existencia?
no es fácil; ¿con qué quieres con esto?

¿te olvidaste el brillo de la luz de la luna mientras mirando al vacío?
¿te olvidaste la luz del amanecer que tocaba la parte de tu espalda más vulnerable?

el pasado es fuerte
más fuerte que los tigres
y tu ambición.
no puedes alcanzar mis manos en tus secretos profundos
así que
dime todas tus luchas
debajo de la luz de la luna.
no me quejaré.

¿te olvidaste el sonido de la lluvia mientras me te abrazaría?
¿te olvidaste cómo se escurría por tu columna vertebral
y te reirías?

te olvidarás los mejores momentos de la vida
si gastas todo el tiempo
estado atascado en tu mente.

ya me olvidé tu cara a pesar de verte anoche
pero no olvidé la manera que me hiciste que me sentí.
la memoria que durará una vida.

no me olvides.

my innocence floated away in fourth grade
when all my classmates grew up and it petrified me.
the world has ruined my bones, has ruined the soil where i planted my first milkweed for the monarch butterflies
we have all been destroyed
we just don't realize
or maybe we do, we just shower and bask in it.  
every soul is so uncouth and the world now stings more than the crack of the whip.
termites are crawling inside our mouths
moths are being inhaled through our nostrils.
when i was nine, everything had a clear answer and i was always happy
but now that my innocence has been scraped from the bark of a crabapple tree
i am so bewildered and i can’t find any sanctuary and life is so unendurable.
restore my patient calm and timid mind
i loathe this planet and this wicked institutionalized harbor where i now have to spend my days
all because i lost my innocence in fourth grade

i talk like a blinding light
  i shoot my opinions out like rockets
not asking, “do you want to hear it?”
   and i hate my voice as much as myself
            and i hate my opinions
hate my face
hate my bones
hate the way i’m obsessed with you
hate the way i’m clueless around clusters of stable fairies
hate the silence when i want to speak
hate my tongue
hate my clothes
hate my beliefs
hate my friendships
hate that i hate my friendships
hate the way i crave laughter
hate the way i ruin moments
hate the rawness of emotions
hate when i run into doorways
hate awkwardness when i can’t hear a word
hate waiting
hate the way the sun shines like a bullet
hate the social interaction
hate everything
          but i don’t hate the boldness
  the flavor that you bring me
         cause before i ate warheads
    and called them sweet like the only word in my dictionary
    but now i’m indulging in candy
  it tastes so bittersweet
             because i didn’t know anyone could love me like i wasn’t a disease
    like i wasn’t an ant to step on
    or a watermelon seed to spit out
                           and i thank you
      because it’s almost been a year
     and you make me hate myself a little less.

apparently the opposite of love is fear
so why do you think running away from him skittishly after he burned you
means he loves you?

if you love my writing, i’ll love you

i wanna feel your hands
on my body
like poetry
stanzas and alliterations
upon my guilty skin

your eyes twinkle
and they sing
i’m sure you would be good at writing
we could exchange ideas
paint words vividly
but maybe you do write out of
your own accord
i don’t actually know you, forgive me

i am tired of being invisible
know me
let me know you
in a way that no one else knows you
a way that is secretive
but capable

i’ll write your wrongs
and right down the street
are my open arms
to hold you in spite of the horror
to build you sanctuary
to construct buildings out of
your bulging eyes
hold me as well

i am not a handful
whatsoever
          just kidding

but whatever
let me be your muse
that way i can live forever in
hardback books and film screens
so i don’t doze off one day and leave
no memories
that way
you’ll always have me

i can stamp you on paper and
keep you in the paragraphs
and
line breaks

i can sketch your eyes into crystal *****
fortune tell for the distant future
inside of our tightly held palms

i will love every square inch of your
olive oil skin
and every ounce
of your soulful soul

i’ll write you into metaphors
about the land, sea, and animals
scream your name at the top of my
lungs until
you magically appear
i’ll wipe your tears
and
toss em’ off your pillowcase
read you bedtime stories about
how the moon adores the tides so
much, but they change every time
  she
    moves

also how the sun stopped shining
and ruined his true love
with the earth
and ever since then, all citizens
get burned in extra passionate heat
he wanted to make it up to her.
but he can’t.

please adore the way i draw the
rhyming into poetry
fantasize about me smiling on a bridge
in Chicago
so tiny in comparison to the
skyscrapers
that cling to the clouds
almost touching Heaven
(they think so)

be my muse
if not from closeup
at least far-away
or
at least
at arms length
cause
i wanna feel your chilly
hands grace my body
like choirs in unison
looovvvvveeeeee mmmmeeeee

(or at least like my poetry)

(you don’t even have to like me)

(just read it)

i love my body
my waist that isn’t the slimmest
but it’s doing the job
my lips aren’t the fullest
but they can taste
i admit i used to hate my legs
i despised the way they fell together
no thigh gap
plump in the mirror and through my judgmental eyes
but i had body dysmorphia
and she was so cruel to me
hitting me and shaming me for every little crease and imperfection on my body
she obsessed and i listened
and i cried and i watched myself twenty four seven
but now my legs are powerful
they could take down anyone
they’ve got a mind of their own
idk when i started loving every swoop and curve and turn my body took
i still think my stomach is too fat
it’s not flat enough
and i would and still **** in to create an effect as if i didn’t eat the two burgers
that i only ate one
but i know i shouldn’t be perfect
i should be human, after all
but how am i supposed to adore the parts of my stomach that don’t look like other womens’ do?
eat less, don’t bloat, stop drinking or you’ll float
i don’t take that type of criticism anymore
my body ain’t perfect
not even a bit
but i am human
what’s wrong with it?
cause it’s a built in truth teller
i won’t let any man stick around who doesn’t beg at my feet
and touch my body as if it were blessed by God
who doesn’t dream of tracing every edge of me and doesn’t say i’m pretty
he better wanna explore every part and dive in deep
love me in my rawest form, beautifully
i will leave him if he uses me for my body
i will love him if he waits for me
you know a body is just a outer wall
for the goopiness and strength of ones heart
so i will love my body
because it is a part of me
and not obsess over it
because it doesn’t matter at all to me

the wilderness is violent, and chaotic and
vapid
fireworks crackle in the golden brown sky
i don’t want to kiss in a busted-up mustang
with a cracked windshield
don’t want to bathe in beer or get drunk in love
unless you want to carve your name on my chest
leave me hanging on the drywall in your bedroom
or leave me outstretched in the dessert
left to my own vices
the heated sun burning marks on my body

from the day we became mirages of our inner selves
and our demons fought in ****** battles that ended in calamity,
we have hid each other in line breaks and kingdoms

the rising sun the single witness of our togetherness
and of the
blisters on my chest
from the tattoos you engraved on the foreign body of mine that didn’t give you the consent

the swarm of flies is me
wheatgrass dry hair
regretting below the canopy
unkempt

listen, i don’t want to be your only,
your stop sign in the road
the swarm of flies is you
clouding my mind
making me confused

the rapid flight of tiny bodies
all dropping dead in front of me
unaware of their demise;
only aware of me

sweet breather,
the swarm of flies is you
panicked and anxious
erratic and angsty
i’ll never need a body to complete me
never need some hands to manhandle me into emotions i do not feel

maybe you’ll always need another skeletal system to inform you of how to exist
productively killing themselves
from within
the swarm of flies is you
a cold reaching hand outstretched to my flimsy bones
warning me to jump into the abyss with no real meaning behind it

the swarm of flies is me
my fluctuation of feelings
mixed signals and pushbacks

i’m sorry, other human,
so sorry i have retreated back into my own thoughts
pacing around a maze that’ll never be completed

the swarm of flies is me
for blaming you
for my own childish fears
for leaving you a corpse
mislead and exhausted

the swarm is me

forgetting isn’t so bad after all
me not checking my test score cause if i don’t see it then i didn’t get that bad grade
isn’t exactly crazy
if i forget those words that imbecile described me as
oh, they’ll go away
disperse into the air
fly to someplace i’m forbidden to go to
i wouldn’t let those stupid words singe my bones
dangle in the mirror, ready to puncture me with those razor-sharp teeth
let me forget
this entire year of excruciating pain and crippling anxiety
feed it to the hungry souls in the graveyard
they will enjoy my disfavor
the ghouls can haunt that imbecile with his petty attitude and ruthless words that he thinks don’t incapacitate people
teach him a lesson in being a decent human being
he’s lucky i’m not vengeful
i don’t crave revenge, i crave to forget
to forget those years that felt like below freezing ocean waves over emaciated bodies
that stripped away comfort and shoved anguish down the throats even of entitled jerks
my brain wishes it could comprehend math and chemistry like he could
if it was that simple, i wouldn’t be worried at this point of the year when i don’t even care enough to pretend to care
let me forget that i let my friends down by talking out loud or shutting my mouth or by hesitating
i don’t wanna be the new doll placed in front of the county that i don’t belong in
those days when i went to Lake Erie and saw hot air balloons lift up into the horizon and ate sausages at some pretty hotel and then went to the beach and let the waves crash into my small figure and i’d smile because life was so easy and simple
i didn’t have to worry about failing chemistry for the year
or what ***** was gonna call me ugly when i entered that ancient building
let me forget the torment
let me forget

he thinks my expressions translate to admiration
he’s so stuck in his oblivion
the accidental glances must be for a reason
he’s so obsessed with himself
he’s thinks i’ll fall to my knees in front of him
jokes on you, i’ve only ever thought about you for less than a minute
i don’t adore you
the coincidences that align
are made up in your mind
i’m just trying to exist
i need to plant a garden within the constraints of the palisades
i don’t even know your name, nor am i enthralled with you
how come when i moved, you moved too?
it’s never ever about you
i need to build a garden in the middle of the woods
can i be trapped forever?
a vanished little girl
on the cliffs of doom

i know you have a good heart
your eyes are set on a victim
but perhaps you are broken
a wheel spinning out of control
whiplash
i’m a forgiving pacifist
seeing good fortune in the corridors
of your darkness
is it delusional to give second chances?
you wouldn’t know how to write my eulogy
you’d be tapping the pen
and
sighing
and
giving up
i walk the downtown streets with a frown
and my cheeks get bumpy from the stress

but i know you’re good at heart
and it just tears me apart
because i want to
resent you and your fanatical calls and your abrasive nature and obsessive behavior
and i’m trying to ***** out words
but it won’t let me
i’m mourning my intuition
around you it’s like i almost have none
i’m a delicate wanderer who wants to love you
more than you’ve ever wanted to
appreciate me

it stings like listerine in my mouth
as i try to flush out
the parts of you that taint my pores.
i can’t call you anymore

i lost one ghost inside these sickly-green walls
who makes me
forget how to keep being a human
and i’m pathetic and we’re all pathetic
smiling behind disguises
misguided
and misleading truth
i don’t wanna speak
to you and i know that would hurt to find out
that i don’t love you as i say i do

i know you have a good heart
so just show me it
in the words you say to me
in the conversations we have
just please.
just please.

i’ve watched the same show for over two weeks
and when my favorite character was falling apart,
it put a damper on my mood.
i am that attached..
to fiction.
it wasn’t even real and i still cried in my bed
with my hair concealing my eyes.
i never like to think of myself as the most empathetic person out there,
it was a sudden jolt in my nature.
perhaps i see myself in his wild eyes,
not the wicked side,
but something in him that reflects in my heart.
i’m repulsed by my poetry.
i wouldn’t even consider it poetic in any way.
i tell my close friends that i write poetry
and i like to think that they scoff at that idea.
i told my retiring teacher that i wrote poetry
and she gave me her email.
what makes her think i’m good enough to be read throughly by an english teacher of forty years?
kinda ironic since i’m posting on a poetry website.
i’m embarrassed of my efforts,
ashamed of my achievements.
see, i’ve never been good at anything
i played basketball in middle school
and my friend would always say that i bombed a shot or i needed to do something more involving.
my past crush even said i was too short to play or something.
i tried being nice for a day because my sister and mother were telling me i was too mean,
i swear i’m not.
but i tried to be nice
and bad things still happened
and i called people rude names.
i’m not good at staying prompt to journaling
like tumblr girls at their highest.
catch my drift, i have never been good at anything,
and poetry is the only thing that makes me feel like i’m alive
who cares if it’s actually well written?
it’s self expression.
i hope everyone at least tries to write one poem once in their lifetime,
it changed my life.
step one: find a muse, trust me, if you have a good one, you might not even experience writers block
(that’s an overestimate, but sure)
step two: write about anything and everything.
write about your drive to work, how the highway signs started to feel like heartbeats because they were so repetitive.
write about your dreadful day at school and about the teacher who freaked out.
step three: find a metaphor in everything.
trust me, if you look hard enough, there’s always a metaphor.
step four: see yourself in other people. capture the conversation the bus passengers had. write from different perspectives;
you’ll learn a lot about empathy.
step five: don’t listen to my advice because i’m not qualified.
don’t listen to the writer of bad poems.
there’s no use in fearing rejection,
i get rejected by myself on the daily.
you’ll never be something to someone if you don’t just say it.
tell them you like them.
tell them they make your world glimmer
and they make bad days a little more bearable.
and if they shrug, it’s ok, souls don’t have the same meaning to everyone
and that’s beautiful.
you’ll live.
rejection is inevitable.
when i’m invested in a show or a person, it becomes my obsession.
when i lie awake at night, i’m wondering what will happen next,
what character is going to get killed off next.
i want my poems to be lengthier and
luckily i can rant like nobody’s business.
i feel less anxious when i throw my feelings onto paper,
and i think things through.
no need to have to suffer through all your chaotic thoughts alone.
write.
that’s advice to me.
write when your favorite character is stressed,
write when you feel peeping eyes on your back.
write when the world churns you out of shape like butter.
write when the music doesn’t seem to calm your inner self.
the world can be wrong,
that’s a possibility.
you are allowed to critique it,
you are allowed to believe in miracles
and you are allowed to ask God if you can’t conjure up an answer all by yourself.
that’s why they say He’s always listening.
they lie about lots of other things,
but definitely not that.
writing is not for everyone,
it picks its candidates with reasoning.
i guess i was chosen
and i won’t let my muses down.
they live inside of my heart even when i wanna tear them out.
i won’t send my poetry to my old teacher,
and i won’t live another day without the benefits of writing.
i still have two more seasons to binge watch of this show
and more and more reasons to be alive.
the world is wrong,
but i never said i was right.
i have no vendettas
and writing has infiltrated my mind.
no tickets are accepted at admission.
come another time.

he ido al lugar donde descansas.
encontré tu forma en la arena.
algún día, te encontraré otra vez
en las señales
o en una cueva
con rosarios en tus manos cerradas.
te miraré con confusión
sorprendida con tu cara familiar.
no cárcel puede guárdame para siempre.
las paredes son demasiada delgadas
y mi amor para ti es más fuerte.
te amo con cada hilo de mi ser.

yo estoy sola
en mi imaginación
en mi realidad
en una multitud de personas.

te encontraré otra vez
cerca de los puentes
buscando tu corazón.
he corriendo miles de millas toda mi vida
cada paso más débil que el previo
rayos en el cielo
apuntando a ti.
ven acá
en el jardín donde el verano es para siempre
y nadie habla conmigo
excepto a ti
y no me importa
de verdad,
me gusta el ruido que haces en mi mente.

mis sentimientos te darán la claridad
cuando mi voz no te dará la verdad.

he te amado desde que tocaste mi corazón frágil
con tus guantes de oro.
eras un caballero
ahora no puedo encontrarte.
donde está mi hombre?
el tipo que se corre
más rápido que el viento
pero no te extraño
en este momento,
solo te quiero encontrar
en la selva o en mis sueños
no me importa.