there is a book within my heart
of poems you've never seen
poems you've never read
poems you'll never read.
and from deep within my heart
with my pen of black ink
i hope that you might read them
and say that you still love me.


― i'm afraid not everything i write is pretty

Lifeless fire and smoldering embers
in her eyes of unborn moons.
Hair that tumbles and strangles,
rolling in whispers of thunder.

Crawl into her mouth
so she can swallow you whole.
Pray that you sink
into her inky soul.

Withering to ash
in the echo of her laugh,
grateful you ever lived
wrapped in her wrath.

Rest between her lips,
dying for a kiss.
Give her it all,
weeping in bliss.

My death will be liberating.

And I do not say that in the sense
that I am going to find a cliff
and take a good jump off.

No.

I am just trying to find a
clever way to tell you

that I do not know what is going
to happen next.

You see,

there is a
fine line
between
dreaming and
mortality

and

I am finding out for myself
that being in love
does not always
involve

being awake.

And for my sake
I fall in love with daydreams,
nightmares,
hazy realities
and

the hung-over idea

of not being enough.

It is all out of my hands.
                 It is all out of time.

And the only thing I have left to do,
now,


is decide.

clouds darken the sky
with their endless rain
foreboding silence
settles and blankets

yet through the despair
of those who cry woe
a brightness pours through
unabashedly

a ray of sunshine
does your dear heart hold
thank you for shining
your light down on me

your endearing warmth
melts away my doubts
like so much piled snow
making way for spring

i've known the summer
and its blazing heat
its fun adventures
for all of my life

yet your cool nature
and slow gentle winds
it incites in me
a new sense of peace

Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t just been the backseat of your car,
Intoxicated. My first drunk hook up. My first. Period.
I picture myself being champagne on Valentine’s Day.
I picture myself being you, nervous in the car, holding Starbucks
because you know I love coffee. Sometimes, I picture myself as her,
calling you a stalker and ignoring your calls,
but then I see myself. I call you beautiful,
turn you into poetry, laugh at your bad jokes,
I see myself as I become your drunk Wednesday night
when you’re sad. I see myself as I say no,
I become a “this is not a good idea”
and you a “we’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.”
We laugh because this hurts too much.
You take her out for dinner and I burrow money
for Plan B because you forgot you don’t like condoms
and clearly have no idea how children are made.
I have already named him. He has your curls and
my anxiety. He is smart. Except, I never wanted kids and
you would be a great father. Instead, you tell her
the beach reminds you of her and I cry in a McDonald’s
bathroom with my friend as relief floods through me that
the test comes negative. I stop talking to you,
move forward, meet someone new and before long
see myself becoming you. Because isn’t that the cycle?
Bad men turn good women into bad women who turn
good men into bad men. I’ll set him free so he can hurt
someone like me, and I drink red wine as I read her
poems about him and me.