There is a rush to throwing yourself into a wave.
A certain giddiness or
a daring hope,
that this time
you will make it to the other side.
Head high and anxiety low,
Able to reassure yourself that
Yes, you can do it.

It is such a rush
that when the ocean breaks on your head,
you know that underwater is temporary,
And bearable.
So here you go.
Set your eyes on that wave,
tell yourself,
this time I will do it.
I will never know
If I don’t try after all.

So what if I have been here,
been trying, for years?
The water laps at my neck, as I cough.
I have been at sea for so long,
my muscles ache, heart most of all.
I keep trying, though
My lips are blue,
glabrous flesh has wrinkled,
And I can hardly see
for all the salt in my eyes.
Brine?
Tears?
I can’t tell.

Though I crave to rest,
The sea does not care.
Each attempt leeching heat,
and locks growing green as kelp.
I fear that should I rest now,
I would never see shore again.
But rather,
find my new bed is one of the sea,
Where I could sleep,
undisturbed by the crashes above,
and never drown.

Your poetry is like cinematography in my head.
How do you do it?
How do you point the formatting like a camera,
like you’re panning for gold,
and discovering something precious
so deep and real
just with the position of your italics?

I told you this,
and then you reciprocated,
saying,

I, on the other hand, use word choice
I listened and heard your intention
I choose and commit to one
like an undying promise
imbuing that choice with all the meaning I can.

You tell me you noticed,
and I suddenly had no words.

the rain looks a certain way today
in what way,
I couldn't say

but I can tell you about the sweet,
light and cool, coconut water that sat so gently on my tongue.

I could tell you about the squidge,
that sound of the liquid inside dumplings
as it flings out in a single burst.

Or the veil of heavy heat
that drapes itself on my back
lounging, and resting languidly.

No one ever gave me an inch
so to take my mile
I had to carve it out
myself out of blood and dust
and saline
No one would have said I was nice about it
I never felt I could be
lest I found myself picked up
and tossed like so much trash
So I was called bossy
Controlling
Fussy,
and mean.

What a self destructive cycle
they wove for me.

There’s an old friend that calls to me
their hands are shoved into pockets
dark half-circles have settled on their face
and their shoes are worn
They want a place to crash again

This traveling stain has gone by many names
but what I used to call them
the pit in my stomach
always seemed more descriptive
than simply calling them self loathing.

They seem weak now
but under dirtied clothes is hard shell
shell, like a seed that once planted it roots in me
and burrowed till they had climbed my throat
and coated my insides in black gooey hate

they left a sticky residue,
the kind that resists being scrubbed off raw fingertips
and stuck on me post-it notes of resentful thoughts
reminding me that even though they’re gone now
they were once there.

So I started writing my own notes
stickers that filled my mind
then my neck, and chest, and finally
my gut.
Little words that accumulated till I opened my mouth and spewed them forward
I repeated them, until I believed them.

One keeps cropping up,
a small slip of syllables that teaches me to act,
regardless of doubt
I take it out of my leather jacket now,
and pass it on to this old friend
reading it out loud as I do,
and saying, clear and fearless,
“No point but the one I choose to make.”

Alone is a trench you dig by yourself.
Love is a garden that I dug with you.

We shower each other in compliments,
like rose petals that bloomed
so recently, so beautifully,
we just had to pick them.
We couldn't help it,
we admired them so.

Alone is a blue sky without a cloud in sight,
[and it misses them so.]
Love is the lightning and the rain in a thunderstorm.

They too, complement each other,
one conducting the other
in a symphony, full of gorgeous crashes,

one can't help but
be awed,
be inspired,

be in love,
with what we've become.

light doesn't break
it bends
it refracts
scattering into spectrums of possibilities
each beautiful
because not one shade is exactly alike
a progression of symphonies
each note hitting a different hertz
new wavelengths
that frequently call out to one another

when we choose to follow a melody
to saunter after a piper that doesn't exist
we bathe, splash, and twirl through
the beam we chose dance in

Drip drip drip
goes the tap
screaming fills the room
a rush of feet
the dripping continues
join us join us
echo the ghosts
of my grandmother’s past

Drip drip drip
It just won’t stop
Just as suddenly as it began
Screaming fades abruptly
entering softly
my hairs stand on end
haunting my dreams
for the rest of my nights

Drip drip drip
there she lies
hair white
mouth wide
a terrified look
frozen in her eyes
eternally
indelible is the sound of the tap
going
Drip
Drip
drip

My compassion is a steel blade,
so thin and sharp,
I could cut you
and you would not know.
You would bleed
and be unaware.

Blades are tools
as well as weapons.
They are the tool of healers,
and I operate with consent.

Fear of the unknown is not compassion,
so every slice is done with consciousness.

No matter how much
I wish to spare you pain,
it must be done with consciousness.

Petrichor petrichor
so overlooked
scent of dust
after rain
overwhelm me
delight me
a scent so rare

Dangerous words are the ones that slip
under our guard.
They nestle next to us at night,
and whisper treacle-sweet nothings
that trickle and slide down canals
to a dosing mind, honeying the way.
They want to ensure easy passage
for the poison kept still at bay.

They tuck us in,
fluff our pillows and our egos,
till we give them freely
those moments of sincerity.
All those genuine smiles and hitched breaths,
we suppose their value
was in their exclusivity.

We break off these pieces of truth
like our hearts are homemade chocolate,
and hand them over in pretty gift wrap.

It’s when these snakes have us so charmed
and they are sated,
that they finally snap and spit.

Their bites are full of venom,
and we see their fangs too late.

No one stays
well, no one stays
for long
maybe that's why I feel this
certainty
that I would follow you till the ends
of the earth, if you would let me

no one stays for long
no one, who understands me stays
maybe that's why I'm so certain
I want to stay with you.

I have been invisible before.
My thoughts and justifications were transparent.
All anyone could see were my actions;
the way I failed and stumbled,
and ran head first into doors that lead me down path after path of distraction.
At least they seemed like distractions,  
oh, but they become my destruction. 


I spent my time quietly imploding,
only to change my mind last minute,
and suddenly explode.
I changed my mind,
but my body stayed stock still.
I stood in front of the judges
and while my tongue was granite,
the urge to run from the podium had never been greater.

I wished to be invisible.
I wished to go to a dark corner of the room and finish my implosion.
Out of sight,
where I could hide and self destruct without a sound.

And then if,
or when,
I picked up the shrapnel,
I could re-join everyone on stage at graduation.

I could hold my head high
and with a smile,
pretend no one saw me crumble.

a young warrior fulfils a dream,
one on one combat, and his foe
folds like wet parchment.
a wounded musician, has his back
even as the javelin impaled
in her arm (her spoils)
drips with life.

the clatter of a die.
a number announcing if she survives
is softly reported

[or how Oscar’s help was neither wanted nor needed, thank you very much]

chills creep up my legs.
the frost white presence
now awake, rises from cave-stone floor.
the chill is on our faces,
breaths and bodies freeze.

the rogue among us steps,
quick fingers dipping into pockets,
their own for once.

Draconic eyes glint like sapphires,
drawn to the currency,
the two gold coins
held before him
in two confident hands.

echoing through the dark space,
a single clink,
a tossed wink.
and just like that,
the thief had stolen a heart.

[or how Chafon seduced a dragon]

bright lights glare down,
shouts and roars collide with white ceilings.
thuds echo from the table
and stomps boom below.

[or how Chafon is an interesting influence, and Aegon seduced an ogre]

I would watch an eternity of sunsets
as reflections in your eyes
in their colors, you are dressed
and your irises are the sky.

Dangerous words
are the ones that slip under our guard
they nestle next to us at night
whisper treacle-sweet nothings
that trickle and slide down canals
to dosing minds,
honeying the way,
ensuring an easy passage
for the poison kept still at bay

They tuck us in and fluff our pillows
and egos
till we give them freely
those moments of sincerity,
genuine smiles and hitched breaths
their value was in their exclusivity.

We break off these pieces of truth
like our hearts are handmade chocolate
and when these snakes have us so charmed
and they are full,
they finally snap and spit.
bites full of venom,
and we see the fangs too late.

Someone must have taken a spatula and stirred me,
feelings that were discrete are now perfectly mixed together,
popped into an oven, preheated,
and maybe its okay I don't remember the ingredients or recipe,
as long we enjoy whatever comes out the oven,
perhaps even together.

there is a secret fear of mine
that I hope is unfounded
upon the moment you see
my face is white and words
that tumble from my lips
do so with frequent tripping
and ungainly finishes,
oh they do betray that I,
I am not what you expected.

I pick up details.
all the details.
or as many details as possible
in the available time frame

but I can’t make connections between things.
A does not connect to B for me.
I can't zoom out and drag and drop a
line of relation from A to B.

instead I have to drag it myself.
Over kilometers of terrain and time and effort.
Most people use a cart.
But not me.
No, I don’t have a cart.
Every attempt bites away more time and effort
in getting the relationship of A to B.
It’s hard and exhausting
and I don’t have many shortcuts for this.
It’s hills and mountains for me.

Sometimes I can zoom out.
But’s it not an easy in-between zoom, like on google maps where you can see where you are on a street.
Or even which neighborhood you’re in.
If the details are the trees and the big picture is forest then,
I go from crunching on pine needles,
to a view above the clouds.

But it’s not a satellite image.
I can’t see the tall green things clustered together
that would make me think “forest”.
I just see a solid, light green polygon. It’s green so I know
it’s something to do with nature.
But I don’t know for sure.
It could be grass.
It could be a jungle, which is really close to a forest, but not quite,
and I don’t know the exact criteria
distinguishing one from the other.
No details for me here.

I know the basic shape and what it might be,
but I’m not sure of the specifics that make up this green place.
It’s to do with nature.
That’s all I got,
so that’s what I go on.

What I learned in school,
is what being damaged to does to you.
It teaches you struggle is a bad word
and that success is effortless
if you’re not perfect right away
you’re not right
at all
your words only have value
according to the rubric
your cries of pain are only noteworthy
when the wound blisters scarlet red
and sticks and stones are as harmless
as the air used to launch them,
never mind that they broke your spirit well before your bones
they’re just kids.

I was a kid too.
Yet you locked me behind
an iron desk for first an hour, then two,
because despite how desperately I pleaded,
you assumed that because you cared,
that meant you couldn’t hurt me.
I have no scars on my skin to
show you,
unless you count the words I never wrote
because thinking about this made me choke.

And writing about it made it real.

You don’t get a scar
when your body is convinced it can no longer draw breath,
and you learn to count to four and hold for four
before you ever open up a trig book
to page four.
I have scars because I am here to be healed,
I am here, still.

Trees that fall in forests don't scar,
but the grove where they once stood misses them.

This is how I rode my bike every day after school,
I rode it back home safely as I could.

Because I learned to shoulder my weight in gold
and understand on my own terms
that my gold standard
is the only one worth anything to me.

Little white lies,
how strange you are!
While parents taught the best policy
is honesty,
impoliteness dies
on our lips to save
others from the grave,
sent there by embarrassment
and save ourselves the harassment.

Little white lies,
how convenient you are!
You have the gratitude eternal
of zillions of children
who attempt escape
of everything from responsibilities
to punishment
for wrongdoings and indiscretions
they commit by laziness and carelessness
and simple child innocence.

Little white lies,
how true you are! You reflect and reveal
the subject of the shame we feel.
of how far we are to go
to dispel with truth
then only the illusion we show
Because, well, then
even the littlest white lie can grow.

Hello cousin
Do you remember me?
I held you
and played peek-a-boo
then let you walk around the room
grabbing at ham that was placed strategically.
Sticky fingers would reach for stickier handholds
you would balance eating with one hand
and staying upright with the other.
Eyes wide and mouth wider,
as fistful following fistful of your favourite food would fold
and be consumed with delight and achievement.
Your eyes had stars in them.
Dear cousin,
Don’t lose those stars.