what if i told you that i like the thrill of drowning
and every now and then i crave the flames licking my thighs?
i am (not) making every effort into closing the windows
and walking away from the birds outside.

your hand sifted through the typed pages
as if you were discovering
each word
for the first time.
ink poured from our mouths
as we whispered haikus
into the depths of novels and scripts.
you unraveled the cursive in my hair
and wove your accents and characters in instead.
fill in the spaces in my book that are left unwritten
with every idea,
every thought
that fills your head,
and i'll turn them into something beautiful.

she sings
in the summer rain.
hear the lyrics
within her amethyst heartbeat
as she reaches
for your lavender locks.
the rhythms
within your rhapsodic bones
stand a little straighter
with every stroke, every strum.
the chords of crystal chrysanthemums
cascade through your veins
as her delicate songs
draw dimples into your amygdala.
her melodic nostalgia
mesmerizes the matutinal lights,
her battles inspire instrumentals
into your branches.
you'll find twisted tempos
at the foot of her talents
and come to admire
the a cappella hegemonies
that hum into her aortas.

baby, i still love you.

what if, tonight, i just stopped breathing,
my heart stopped beating and my chest stopped heaving?
i could swallow those three bottles of fresh pills
while wondering how it went downhill and i was suddenly ill.
it's not like i'm needed here anyway
my mind's just left to rot away while my innocence decays.

you say that it never rains,
but when it does, it pours.
you say you're too far from the drain,
so you let it flood and drown you
until you cannot breathe anymore.

but i am here to remind you
that you know how to swim;
it's only just a matter
of the way you use your limbs.
you can flail them around
in hopes that someone will save you,
or you can tread the water,
get yourself off the ground,
and come to your own rescue.

and though you claim
that the monsters left you broken,
i'm telling you not to be intimidated
because whatever you saw in the ocean
are monsters you created.

you have the power to part the sea,
but for now we'll build a boat and work towards recovery.
i promise you, it's a guarantee,
that someday you and i will be free.

reunited at last,
with her arms around me once again.

she was a diamond,
glistened in stone.
she wiped my tears away
when i was alone.

and when she'd smile, i would too after.
say a joke, end up in laughter.
she'd cheer me up when i was down.
when she told me not to worry
she said "it will not hurt me."
i wish she still was with me now.

she was my shooting star,
a wish come true.
she kept me in her heart
even though i barely knew.

my hips ache for her arms around them.
my hands tremble for her hands to hold them.
my cheeks burn for her lips to kiss them.
my knees stumble for her feet to guide them.

my head falters for her shoulders to ease it.
my heart hungers for her love to feed it.

In the bitter cold
Moonlight, something was out of
Its place, and though I
Sought to find what it was,
Someone wrapped their arms around me and said
You were gone, and though the silence was rather
Odd, I felt your absence and I suddenly realized that I didn't
Understand the purpose of existence without you.

the lilacs dripping from your lips kiss the sky and make the clouds sway under your spell. your laugh creates a kingdom of liliums and lavandulas. the world turns and the sun shines, all for you. but suddenly you remember.

you remember things you promised yourself you wouldn't.

the lilacs are replaced by wilting roses with thriving thorns. they puncture the sky as the clouds unite to protect the heaven you're trying to destroy.

and your garden becomes an abyss. i'm not sure how far down it goes (maybe six feet deep) but somewhere in the depths of your despair lies your innocence.

the girl with the blue heart
waits by the bus stop
hoping someone would come and take her away.
a tumor had formed in her chest
from when she got drunk on stolen love.
she reeked of liquor, anxiety, desuetude,
and the fear that she may never be loved.

the girl with the blue heart
wasn't always like this;
her heart was once golden
with forest green streams running through her veins.
geraniums and chrysanthemums adorned her face
and kissed her lips like milk and honey.

now the girl with the blue heart
speaks with a mouth full of cobwebs
and the never-ending desire
to crawl six feet deep into the ground.
her caesious fingertips
chased maladies down the boulevard
until she reached dead ends.

the girl with the blue heart
craves nothing more than nepenthe,
melatonin,
and a place to call home.

you asked for 15 minutes
to play with clear glass marbles
and grieve in it;
but instead twirled with dragons
in a clever patchwork and
a rodeo in your bandwagon.
light killed you on a crucifix
auditioning to give your spirit a lift;
started it all when you were six.
rented a loft to store your tears
hide hair ribbons in nail holes
that have been dead for thirty years.
you wanted to release hammers between sets
but you were stuck making french fries in coffee shops
and you hadn't told your husband yet.
now the clock reads eight and you're on your knees,
praying to saint margaret,
begging her to cut your cheek.

i haven't felt that familiar sting
since the world left me behind.  
for a while i tried to convince myself
that i was happy.

for a while i entertained the tongue
of a cowardly lion and forced myself
to forget what love felt like and let lust in.
it was when he begged me to lose my cowardice that i realized he was only in it for the golden fur he wore to give himself that sense of pride of conquering my kingdom.

for a while i stuffed those nervous poppies
into my pillow to seep into my dreams at night.
i couldn't banish them, though;
you can't escape what you're a part of.

for a while i gave oil to the tin man, who in turn
left me alone in the middle of nowhere,
like a scarecrow,
or like a child waiting for his father to return from the grocery store.
the tin man promised me care and attention,
but i guess only oz has that kind of privilege.

i haven't felt that familiar sting
since the world left me behind.
for a while, i tried to convince myself
that i was happy;
but i instead found my way
back to the black and white pains of kansas.
there is no place like home.

i'm walking across the rigid slabs of concrete
with the echoes of sirens etched into my hippocampus.
my pace quickens along with the pounds of an anxious heartbeat in a race against the carousel of red and blue because one day
they'll be coming for me too.

you had stuffed your mouth with stained glass
in hopes that they would block out
the dull and muted words you spoke
(and replace them with colorful vocabulary),
but stained glass isn't opaque.

you took the shards of glass
          cutting my hands
                    and turned them
                              into flower petals.

my head is often riddled with tastes that never quite reach the tongue,
tastes of tapping fingers along the crystallized blue. no one ever thinks
to check the mind of the depressed after the first smile.
i like to think that i am the next sylvia plath.
i may be no poetic genius but i’ve crawled under the house and seen
too much too many times to count.
sometimes i pray that i never live to hear the next morning song, or that
i am haunted by something other than daddy’s heirloom as i do at every
waking moment. i compare my veins with plath’s as every wrong
breath is taken, and my amygdala can’t help but formulate my anxiety
into tastes that never quite reach the tongue.

i know i am not sylvia plath.
i am not brave enough to face the queen of the underworld
and so take on the persona of lady lazarus. cowardly,
i cannot bring myself to set fire to my lungs
so all i can do is lay back and let the birds catch the worms,
leaving messes that keeping me from staying clean.