Your dress was plum;
although, my fantasies remember Maroon.
Dancing in God’s house, you moved like scripta,
and I burned like the sinner’s hands.
Had you blushed near me again, I was going
to hold it against myself.

Thrice removed
(grief-stricken) and held against him,
I am empty of you.

But not yet extinguished from your singe of interest,
of your reading me like The Price of Salt.
Wondering, suppose I call, if your
arrival would be the difference of a few vowels.
Divine intervention, master of my curiosity,
I spend my evenings drunk on forbidden fruits.

Pardon my chaos talking in triangles–
of lust’s longing in color–
our tortured poet already said it best.

poetry is a business with
finger-snap appraisals
that thrives on how
much I hate myself

silver spoons
singe privilege
hungry, wolves

steal copper
for the thief's
wife and their sons

24k gold in her
eyes, attracting
common men--

all fools.

brought bones to
a gun fight,
cartilage and
cartridges.
/
Does the rope
around my ankles
make me look fat?

the k nine & its teeth agree
that tender meat is better raw.
a land under one primal god-
his face slipped into ***** hands;
folded in grocery lines.

at a 24/7 gas station buying a
carton of a mother's hard work
cheaper by the dozen but i can't
sell mine; **** this ****** biology
it makes for another product taxed

and builds another landfill. I'm
stocked with candies i didn't want
to buy myself. It happened two
nights ago by myself in bare sunlight;
an ugly mess a day can make.

unaware of myself
the gawking
something about a man and those
repetitive hungry eyes.
where have i seen those hungry eyes?

the family dinner of twenty seventeen
and the serialization of a girl and her
father and then every day after. straw
berry kool aid will never be the same:
nostalgia is not who she used to be.


my ex boyfriend says he can't feel
sympathy for the opposite ***
because he isn't a woman & that's
why he's a ****** and life
***** me over

i don't sleep well anymore
i am lying to my friends
because there’s nothing
better to do
i make music with my teeth-
my therapist listens with
enthusiasm- she must have
pre-ordered from itunes
the mirror told me a joke
and i was the punch line
i don’t laugh at ****** knuckles,
only stitches and their optimism
did you know an octopus
has 3 hearts and its probably
Because we lovely few keep
throwing cardiac glances
to cerulean eyes
i make mistakes
im going to get a phD
in loving myself outrageously
so i can stop writing ****** poetry
Instead i’ll count sheep and the
hours im never getting back
i don’t sleep well anymore

congestion of a lung-
the left one that he can live
without;  
sans the pareidolia, what is
this organic machine?
maybe a
fool weakened by
failure of finding the
force in front of him.
having waited this millenium
after Archimedes,
subtraction has
become the reaper
of the living man: one who
doesn’t need his eyes to
find his feet wet from Styx.

it doesn't make any sense.

look at her anatomy, for example-
he still can't understand it.

and if i die naked
from exposure,
left only with my claws,

may my stomach
be filled with her flesh;
heart sour.
Both of us now equals

i don't sleep well anymore
i am lying to my friends
because there’s nothing
better to do
i make music with my teeth as
my therapist listens with
enthusiasm (she must have
pre-ordered from itunes)
the mirror told me a joke
and i was the punch line
i don’t laugh at ****** knuckles,
only stitches and their optimism
did you know an octopus
has 3 hearts and its probably
because we last lovely few keep
throwing cardiac glances
to cerulean eyes
i make mistakes
im going to get a phD
in loving myself outrageously
so i can stop writing ****** poetry
i'll probably fail out
instead i’ll count sheep and the
hours im never getting back
i don’t sleep well anymore

Our history is buried 6 feet deep,
and the worms are excellent archeologists.

I started writing to give recollection to my name.
I mastered the pages so I could hopefully forget yours.
But that failed,
so remember me as disappointment.
For the words on this page emanate the
same failure as the organic,
breathing matter holding them-
living them-
believing in them that I was as gifted as
the others before me who wrote sonnets
dedicated to forest green eyes.

Probably your green eyes.

****, forget forgetting your name.
It was carved into the tree that
conceived my paper heart.
And, by chance, did you use the same
knife to engrave it that
you did to tear me to shreds?

Classic of you to expect a rhyme.
The admiration bleeding from my poetry
cannot be captured in "love" and "dove,"
so to hell with you.
Yet, thanks to you,
came the spark of a nameless girl
with words that incinerate.

I have advice; although, I'm not sure how
it will taste:
remember me as a legacy.

You're written in God's perfect image
and the mundane words
I pen down
will never capture the allure
of you.
God didn't require editing.

I wanted to do something positive for the world,
so I decided to stay in it. Because what is greater
than a girl who wishes to flirt with something as
unfaithful as tomorrow?

they have
been here-
Plath,
Hemingway,
Dickinson-
where merriment
grows little,
and sorrow
feasts abundantly
on the
sacrificial red
ink I
must bleed
to convey
what my
voice dare
not say.

she's addicted to his "I'm sorry's."

One day
I'll write poetry that
does not echo in his honor,
or shatter hearts like his hands
so unforgivably did.

But unfortunately,
and as misfortune may have it,
these words still breathe for him.

a mother,
a father,
dearest friends,
myself,
and every passing
minute,
crowded the burial sight
of my shattered
hearts’ numbered years
as
time moved a steady hand
to my shuddering shoulders,
repeating in a rhythmic tone,
“Don't fear, for I can fix this.”

call me Pluto--
for I am tucked
Away into the
darkest corner of
the universe where
forgotten stardust collects,
hidden behind gaping
shadows--
never with the  
the privilege of
being sun-kissed
and obliterated by
the warmest star.

with this pen in
my hand
and your warm fingers
filling the
spaces between mine,
I swear
upon the stars
that we
will never die.

I cannot ignore
my watercolor dreams
of foreign places
and their local
eyes puddled in
mystery and a
sense of youth;
all of which
make a desperate
calling to bring
me back to
the sprawling hills
of everywhere.

remnants of old
conversations
mimic forgotten
fossils, and I
spend my sacred time
sifting through the remains,
trying to find what
exactly we left behind.

Death sat upon her chapped lips
while midnight crept up, still
with intentions to capture the sun.

If you crave
discovering the pit
of fire,
shower the floor
with your coverings
and summon lust
under white linen
while my hungry
eyes make a
meal of you.

Or, if you
fantasize of glowing
gates drenched in
golden glory,
keep silent
prayers tucked under
your tongue,
and don’t let
God hear you
say my name.

with your sparkling eyes
like crystal ****
and tranquilizing words
smoother than
****** gliding in innocent
veins,
you should stay away
from dark alleys and
promiscuous street corners.

above all else,
avoid her greedy fingers-
She's a user.

"I'll take a bullet for you, just not from you."

haunting frights slur,
convincing a tired,
throbbing spine to
stumble away from
memories lost in
the unforgiving happy
hours of continuous,
cheap brown lager.

young, blonde pigtails
tap weary broad shoulders
and mumble under
bubble-gum breath:
“strong bones won’t
do a corpse
any **** good.”

poetry,
she had known,
was love no one could ever
take away from her
and she fancied that,
in her new solitude,
she had piece of mind
among the few words
which kept her feeling human.

after you left,
anxiety attacks threw my body
into a fitful quake- a tremble
my bed couldn't suppress.

and to ease my aching mind
about your absence from
within familiar walls,  
I splattered blood, red crimson
chemicals on bitten nails.

they shimmer, yet
there's still nothing
beautiful about this
painted lady.

when your cold
fingers get the
chance, let their
haunting abilities
of ink dance
across the fine
white of paper
and choreograph
what it's like
to dance in
the vast nothingness
of an inevitability
you were too
curious to prolong.

A
broken record
melodiously repeating
the same phrase
to a constant rhythm:

“I love you”
“I love you,”

And
a timid ear eager
in pace to halt the
sounds of the music’s
delicate reassurance

Luminous starshine drips
from the sky and
cascades freely toward
the mundane world
and
,with no hesitation,
ceaselessly pours enchanting
inspiration into the
empty wasteland that
is
my ink pen.

My thoughts are contaminated with an unknown radiation
and the blood in my veins feels as if it has have been replaced
by toxic sludge.

There are ink stains on the bedding where my body rested
from the times were my quarantined mind was deprived of slumber, for further testing.

You could illuminate as bright as the North Star
but you're settling for a shine as insignificant as
a street light in a crowded city.

He turned away from you while you were on the ground
with bruises on your face lying with a puddle of blood next
to your cheek on the floor. With plead in your eyes, you glanced
his way because you thought this was love and you wanted more.

Every cut on my paper heart
bled crimson love for the boy
with scissor hands.

Like a blazing fire to a city of 10 million,
there will be no end to the destruction.

Up in flames it will all go and down will ashes,
cascading to the ground like a snowfall of innocence no longer.

My hands are warm and I know it’s that same restless fire burning in me; a fire I know no monsoon could ever contain.

There’s power that surges inside- I am aware of it’s presence
because I feel the indescribable desire to wreak havoc tingling in my veins.

I don’t want to char the world for I know those scars won’t heal, but without something that lasts how will they remember me when

even the brightest flames die out?

Do you still perform autopsies on our old conversations?

Or do you let their existence decay,

just like you did with your love for me?