i was born under
a pennsylvania moon
in the middle of jericho.
where all the walls
had decided
they were done
being womb
and crumbled to the blow
of winter winds.
i was whisked out of
from my cocoon
too soon
and spent weeks
piped to feed and breath
for me.
the moment
they let me out
i moved back forth.
i have been hopscotching
from city to city
since 06
and thus have forgotten
how to play dominoes.
or cards or do puzzles
or anything done sitting still
because the rhythm
of my life
doesn't allow me
to squat for too much
longer than the linger
of my scent cross these sheets
so i've learned
to sink in deep while i can
place my print in
these pillow tops
before the moon drops
and its moving day again.
i find it hard
to be me sometimes.
too busy trying
be a resident.
sometimes i pretend
im a committed writer
but come on,
****** spend more time
trying to pair their
tops and shoes
then i do
scraping these wounds
over screens
letting ink bleed.
i'm just not
consistent enough
to hold a title.
i'm only a student
til the summer
so don't try and teach
me in july.
there are summer sins
that i wont even
begin to learn from
til autumn starts to
reek of jansports
and gym clothes.
i'm only the baby
on holidays.
only hear from all
3 sisters when courtesy
twists our wrists
and force fingers
to remember phone numbers
filed under family.
so i cant believe
when ****** still
text me good mornings.
there's been so many
since we've last talked
and the last time
we walked the same grounds
i switched my route
and pretended
i didn't see you.
ashamed i let you
think there was
room in my inconsistency.
should've warned you
not to bring your pillow
cause there's little
chance ill still
like you in the morning.
those sunrises can be
so haunting.
when the sun
is so low
its shape is tombstone
how could i not
bring up those bones
in my closet?
i cant answer your call
today because
we were never meant
to last past 24 hours.
that's like two fireflies
trying to keep
their glow past dawn.
don't you find it pointless?
i have learned
to harvest as much as i can
before the season ends
and the infatuation
turns to wrinkles
and withers.
alysia once said
poets love love
because love is life
and we're
afraid of death
so we create
between where we
are and were
and where we were going
but i am here.
standing in a shower
trying to scrape
these postage stamps
off my corners
cause cargo holds
haven't been
all that good to me.
i've been packaged
and stamped and
boxed and shipped me
more times than i'll admit
because honesty
doesn't drip off your lips
as easily as blood
when you hit maturity
and are taught
to bite your tongue.
the only roots i have
were sowed
in my convictions
so i'm destined to roam
everywhere except
in my faith.
my sister knows
of my wishes
to never have to wilt
beneath mahogany.
i want to be cremated
when i die.
i want to be fire fly.
bathed in the bright
of a thousand fireflies
in a daytime thunderstorm
to make up for lost time.
but don't
scatter my remains.
sit me in a vase
on the end
of your mantle
with a candle
and ill pray
for you're stability
for all the days
i spent in transit.
after living all those years
in solidarity
with the wind
i'd at least like to
spend my sleep
in one spot.