when someone's blame turns around
and points it's finger at you, don't back down
stare it in the face--
smile;
blame is a beautiful thing that likes
to shift in the inky blackness of deceit

These days life never seems worth it.
I’m still wandering around searching for my sense of purpose.
I don’t want to but I think I have to rid you of my life.
Either way it’s getting me no further away from the knife.
If only I could get out of this negative spiral.
But I’m still living with all of this self doubt and denial.
Will I ever find someone who will stay?
Something tells me I won’t and that’s why I’m never okay.
So I’ll still wish the best for you in whatever you decide to do.
As I break in these shoes hoping I can find the strength to find something new.

love is not a safe word
it’s one haiku revised 400 times
on cracked leather chairs in the corner of cafés

some of us love badly
she says as she kisses the rim of her glass.
some of us love stretched out
like pizza dough that rips when our rolling pin rolls it too thin.

some of us love in secrecy
we do not trust your hands.
you try to pull our scalp off and draw your portrait on our mind

some of us love clean
like bubble bath that smells like lavender from some fancy store in the mall
some of us love *****
we cant clean you off our skin

some of us kiss with our teeth
some of us braid our lovers into our hair
and when we remove the hair tie
it is crimped and messy and tangled

some of us love love
but only far from home
when we slip into bed we start thinking
and we can’t stay still

some of us wash our clothes even when they don’t smell
or aren’t stained
just because it feels like you are inside of our shirts and pants and sneakers

some of us walk alone past your house
on the way to ours
and stop at the front step
waiting for you to come out
and smile at us
the only thing we wait for today
are the smudged signatures of snails
scrawled across your pavement

some of us love to the bone
until there are no more “ifs”
just “is” and “are”
the collected poems of our fingers
swollen, bruised, red like a bouquet of roses

some of us love
and we regret it
we never get home in time for dinner because of it, we leak like a faulty faucet, we sleep with our pillows over our heads to keep everything in
but some of us love
some of us own a watch and know the time with a glance at our wrist, some of us own a sponge to soak up the water, some of us own satin pillows that feel like whispers on our cheekbones

if I’m too shy to tell you
my feelings,
you’ll know.
I’ll hide behind my thousands of masks
quietly laughing and telling you jokes
because I’m afraid
that if I tell you one small thing
my masks will fall off
and one thing will lead to everything.
I may be unexpressed but I have a lot of things
to think about.    
                    ~n.r.