I say, "I love you,"
you say, "te amo."

I wrote a poem
but it seemed hollow.*

I'm starting to see that we are not
so imperfect, but rather, only
different.

I'm still waiting to age, still learning
to gauge with the dynamics we create - you
speaking a language so foreign, it seems
that you speak sweet
to me
but I fail to believe
you say what you mean.

It's as though the weight of the phrase
"I love you"
hangs heavy with the ones
who came before you;

it reminds me of airport goodbyes, of late-night
confessions on Facebook - sleepy and
painfully honest,

it reminds me of another story,

"I love you" has significance, a ponderance, an expectation,
a manner in which I can predict
the things you think behind those unsmilingly
eyes, but "te amo"

"te amo" is Rihanna, it's an utterance on a evening
beach, it's a reflexive simple present
tense, conjugated with practice, and now
it's my haven,
my integration, you have become
engrained in my conversations.

i am split between barely-different
desires, or rather,
equally-addictive inclinations:

you see, half of me wants nothing
but to strip away the sticky sweet
self-hatred, just say **** it
and be happy/
relive the day-after-day
same sensations, but this time
enjoy them freely, without the hesitation
usually harbored within,
fed again and again;

the other half of me wants to live
sort of slovenly: one day, purchasing
scarves and layered plaid garments,
hiding behind charcoal eye liner
and perhaps a full sleeve
of amateur ink (tree leaves changing
into full-piece stories);

half of me hates me, and the other
wants so badly to grasp hold
before I tumble full force
into the cracks out of reach from the future
created for me, by me, waiting
patiently.

Self-respect is not me dismissing
my own emotions, it is not
excusing unprotected *** and disrespectful
texts because the ****** is better
than the silence;

no--- self-respect is not me crawling
down the street to fake-sleep
beside your smug form, only so that I may
cab home the next day and nap
away the pain;

self-respect is not what I have given myself
these past eight months, but I promise to fight
now because if you believe this poorly
labeled, loosely constructed
relationship allows you to **** her
with your clothes on in the corner
of the dance floor
while I am five feet from your
disgraceful ******* self, then I can find
the strength to delete every pleasant
memory from the place in my brain
that's been holding me back;

there are so many inches of my body and
my soul that you will never know (not that you
even thought to pry) and I will keep them safe
for the next deserving guy

every ***** must be floating in my self-
loathing, my brain detached and sparking
in the fluid, crying out to me, logically

get off the balcony, Romeo isn't who
he appears to be

and my lungs are flooding quickly, but
my heart beats without the need to
breathe,

every piece of me is independent,
and yet they all ache from the same **** pain,

and I hate the credit I'm giving you
just by waking up, trying impossibly
to forget you - I hate you, I swear to God,
I hate you for making me weak, for making me
believe this ache was caused by you and not me

[my memories are not
loose threads
that catch passing through
the doorways]

you are not
something I despise, and yet
I no longer sacrifice
parts
of my well-being
for your
shallow communication/
your subconscious lies;

if you cannot define yourself,
then do not wait for me
to redefine my life-
waiting-

there is something remarkable
about you, and it took me
too long
to realize that what I saw
in you
was an image
from within
my own mind;

you were only ever
human,
a creation of my own
exaggeration

moral tamponade: resisting the existing
pressure against my breath; the right in wanting,
the wrong in settling - the confliction in my conviction
for both *** and respect;

must the two be mutually
exclusive?

I don't do that catch and release type of
relationship **** - no predator/prey - just equally
matched competitive exhibition: rotate the roles
of top and bottom, pleasure and pleasing, we are in need
of fire breathing;

I want purity in purpose, practice
in form/I want limbs to be tangled and words
to be torn

hold my hand/ above my head
kiss me sweet/ against the bed
call me pretty/ into my breast
cleanse my sins/ I am wet

You are the equivalent of a knotted
necklace chain -  your ends tied to mine,
but it's about time I untangle our comedic tragedy;

you are a mess of constant confusion, occasionally
relaying and resting your uncertain intentions/
motivations on my chest, and asking me drunkenly
to unravel your misery, and darling I did that,
I tried that, and in the end I'm not like that.

we could be any number of things:
platonic cuddle buddies, a sloppy half-
forgotten kiss against the ***** banister, an
excuse to expose ourselves in ways
we only save for the dark - deep, and confused,
and vulnerable;

we could be any number of things, but I think
I'd like us to be something/anything - lately, I've been craving
new experience the same way one might crave
a day at the beach with a few clouds and summer heat

first date conversation: research
on lemurs and taxis without floors
because the city is too poor
for upscale renovation

and we exchange backgrounds and
drug stories and some-day-soon
kind of musings

/a southern peach and a sour
stiletto; the man in corner singing
slowly Nobody's Child/

and eventually we write our names in chalk
on the ceiling (and the wall because
I'm tired of places appearing as if I'd
never been there at all)

and later still we write our names in heat
against the cloudy window (twice
because the steam keeps swallowing up
our evidence of existence)

but it's easy to write again and
again because our names are the same
and I'm starting to believe in this idea
of genuine permanence

I wish I was one for brevity,
but there are so many words that sit
unheard in my head because I spend far
too many nights alone in this bed.

I need a bag to punch, or a cup
to chuck, eh maybe a
wall to dent, or a man to ****;

I need something that isn't you -
I need it like these raw emotions need
to hold on a moment so that I may
control them, fold them neatly
into a beautiful poem,

but they resist, and you're still missed,
and it ***** me up inside;
what we had wasn't finished
in my mind, and it ***** me up inside..

there are sparks inside
my chest, my god;

today, I passed two mugs
atop the pavement,
and I wished so badly
for isolation
so that I could break them;

from time to time, I feel explosions
of emotion, and I want to fling
my rage against the wall - purple
hate specks on white paint;

but I can't afford true destruction,
so I tense, and flinch, and decide
it's best to spill my pain electronically
in vast, ambiguous space

I'm told the only way grow
over you, is to peel apart every memory;
I must reach down my choked-up
throat, and feel around for you inside
my broken body - find the figments
of my bitter fantasies and watch them over
and over

[the night we walked home
at 3am and shouted lyrics from Snow
Patrol at the scarecrows in the
graveyard/ the night we ******
three consecutive
times/ the night I decided
I would let myself fall]

until I suffocate and hate you,
all the same; the best-tested remedy
is to become a practicing
******* - a professional
pain analyst,

and so I'll gag myself
cleansing my body from your
presence, I'll pour my liver out
if only to pry apart the
bargains;
I will ruin every black and white
filmstrip if only to say
goodbye
for the last time

I foolishly thought
recovery
was the point past which
I no longer reached
for Kleenex, yet it seems
you still follow me
in the back of my throat
causing me to choke
from time to
time, and occasionally
I spit you up [the bile that you are],
and I want so much
to be free from you,
but in my moments
of weakness,
I swallow you up -
whole again - I know no
different, you are the beginning
and the end.

Say you and I go home tonight,
what details will you share?

Do you brush your teeth
in the shower, or
sleep in underwear?

Do you study well with music,
or prefer the silence
of a hallowed and lonely library?

Do you forget your dreams
while waking, or do they wake you
and leave you reeling?

Do you ache for someone
you can't replace, or have you gone numb
from all these shallow dates?

*You know it pays to engage in
genuine conversation, so tell me,
are you willing take off
more than the clothes you came in?

Love and time are two
relatively tied
concepts that you and I
are no longer
aligned with.*

Summer feels like
yesterday to me
(you see, I still
dream of you, as much
as I don't wish to),

and for you,
summer feels like a holiday
vacation that ended
a week too short
when the storm came early
and the clouds covered
up the sun, yet -

faintly, you remember
the warmth of the beach
and the familiar
touch of the water against
your feet/
faintly, you remember
me,

and too often, I toss
against you
in my sleep - wrestling
with these memories.

Every stranger on the street
has sunk deep into the night at least once,
or twice, and I'd wager
that at times their thoughts have unfurled
into black dishrags soaking up
the insignificant amounts
of vivacity-
pouring pride into the sewer,
praying desperately to recover.

Eventually, time pries a crack
into the soul, and peels back
the skin of morality until the lines
no longer meet and the mind
reels- searching for the baseline
of sanity- save me, someone
save me.

The wind, a curling
yell between the streets;
the leaves, a watercolor
spilling out into
the evening/ paint it
pretty as you're leaving.

I hunger for all
the words you will never say-

the good in goodbye

Closure is hardly ever
the clean cut we desire;
it can warp in heated,
heavy air
-putrid convolution-
an apple core shrinking inside
itself (till its existence
is defined by its silent
exodus).

We play with silence like a child
plays with a rubber band -
we stretch it and bend it until
it breaks, or until we tire
of the same old game.

The scales are rarely ever
even, and too often
I find myself laden with love -
sinking with the sick feeling
that I will drown this way,
that I will suffocate;

and you weren't anything
exceptional:

on the last day of camp, equipped
with a sharpie you wrote
your name - isolated/ the same -
on the cabin wall, while I
wrote mine - changed/ beside
the phrase: "I fell in love
too many times to count, and I will
bleed until this love dies"
and only then will the scales shift,
and my hollow heart will rise -
a victory? Maybe.

You are not real
anymore,
you are not mine
forever;

instead, you are
disintegrating
as I strip apart the memories
and shake out
the sadness -
not a real
sadness, but an emptiness
I may never understand

so I'll write until I do,
or until I've erased
the last traces of you

Emptiness is less
a symptom, and more a mode
of pure rehearsal.

Is there, perhaps, some class
I could enroll in that might
increase my chances of understanding
the exact circumstances
I am in because I'd like to think
that time itself does tell
the roundabouts of where
I ought to be ten years
from now, but if that were so
then why am I
still sitting here a year
from graduation in an introductory
course on evolution.

haven’t held a hand
in three years,
and I’m starting
to think
that makes me
less of a human
being

Society defines me
in one of two hues; either I present
myself in solitary stains of black -
pushing against the many
men trying to please their
prying fingertips;
or I pull fast - the blinding
white of a greedy need
so deep it carries the weight
of every woman, and with my emptiness
I taint the female race
blank - no clear definition (just vines
reaching for stability); strange,
how people crave
definitions when the world
paints itself so beautiful
in all the colors we neglect.

yo lo quiero mas, mas por favor*

in a foreign country with foreign tongue

he touched her there beneath the tree

dark skin, soft eyes, sweet words

she gave in to the wishes and kisses

of an eager costa rican man.

he lured her into his dorm room

her first time there between

the toilet and the shower - steam

fogging the cracked mirror - steam

meant to distill the unmistakable smell

of the crushed greens she inhaled deep

swallowing the fiery magic as he

slipped beside her wanting

to be inside her, he massaged her

back, her shoulders, inching his fingers

up along the sides of her slender

neck trying to knead his way into her

mind the way he wanted, needed

to give her another mind-blowing

experience right there between

the toilet and the shower - steam

turning into sweaty rivulets down

the crack of an arched back - but

submitting to the aching desires

of hungry men was an act

she knew far too well and so -

between the toilet and the shower and the steam

she saw temptation as it was -

a slimy red-eyed serpent

begging her to stay.

just another silly day

                       a

                         l

                           o

                             n

                                e

believing, seeking, hoping, praying

to find an answer in the melancholy that is

a battered girl, a simple song, a faerie tale

invented to whisk away a pallid heart - but

it’s just another silly day

and she realizes there is no escape in the silence,

when she is alone tears paint

a pretty poem that no one will hear.

by the way
                 I would like to say
                                                I miss you again today

last night i dreamt of ugly

things - bloated toads, broken birds,

and the mangled half-skeleton of

a human body all floating

up my driveway as I tried to flee

and warn my family, but as I turned

I witnessed a hooded man

****** my own father, who fell

in the puddle of slippery bones.

stiff sheets, cold covers
tonight i cling to these dreams
hopeful not to wake

i am nothing but dark skin, dark

eyes, and an even darker heart, yet you

tell me day-and-day again how beautiful

i am. i am, nothing but dark.

Last night I dreamt

of you, you and I said goodnight

and you went to your room and I

to mine, where you proceeded to touch

yourself and I, I too

touched myself - and we both touched

ourselves to sweaty memories of us

in the blue room/

in the old house/

in the early months

of a young love that came unraveled.

back-to-back in a bed fit
for one we are two
separate bodies rolled apart.

always so predictable - retreat to the bathroom

and brush your teeth, reapply the deodorant

for another round. slink back through the door -

cracked enough to let the moans slip out and echo

into the unfurnished house. attempt - and fail

to arouse me with a probing tongue, and whisper

the same compliments that no longer impress.

pause. ******. resume.

lay me on my back or push me up against

the curtained window, it makes no difference to me anymore,

I’ll just close my eyes and pretend, making more noise

in pain than in pleasure. and when I tell you to

come, it’s a plea more for my sake than yours.

I tossed you into the
box of discarded toys
I no longer love

the day before her birthday
she made a wish list:


> a boy to erase
the smudges she’d made
while trying to fix herself

>a pair of faded
jeans that actually fit

>a spiraled notebook
to defend her dreams

>a second chance
to live a life without
the bitter taste of regret


when she blew out the candles
she realized stupidly - she was always so stupid!
that she would never deserve
the former, so she gave herself
the latter
(with a ladder)
and a rope.

kicking and screaming,
she fought
the seaweed that swathed
her limbs in emerald wraps,
but each shout was muted
by the water
polluted
with a thick muck
stained by even
blacker souls
who too thrashed
in that seaweed



it was only
when she'd lost
all hope and desire
to escape the
leafy grips
that the murky bottom
swallowed up
the tangled seaweed
like a serpent's tongue



in those moments,
through bleary eyes
she saw her
worth
wash away
with the angry swells
and she understood -
she reclaimed
her limbs and ascended
upward to salvage
her soul once more
for now
she was weightless.

And it seems this time I'm choking

Not on the falling tears
But on the rising fears

That loneliness is the only thing
         that lasts
Forever

Am I at the end
Of this stone -
Being pushed, shoved
Forth onto the next?

Unwilling to take that step
All alone
Again.

And why?
For here I am safe
Master of my stone
Happy with this reality.

Safe from here I see
The gnarled rocks surrounding
The polished rock dripping
With moss and the likes.

And so I will ask once more -
Must I leave this safe place
For one that brings no promises,
Only strangers with their sorrows
Dragging behind them
As they too remember there
Stones they left behind.

Her silence screamed words
spoken from an aching heart
longing for a friend.

Simply, I’d like a
not-so-simple man to share
my sheets with tonight.

You and I,
Our love is like the week-old
Confetti cake
On my table. yesterday
It seemed like such a fine idea
To run my tongue along the
Length of the pan, lapping up
The rainbow frosting, so delicious
Was our love at first
Such a fine idea, you were
As you filled my head with sweet
Nothings. today I pay
The price of that confetti cake
Frosting now gumming up my
Insides, an excess of sweet
Saccharine nothings, you were
Such a fine idea once
But now the confetti cake
On my table, or rather the container -
You and I,
We harbor only hardened crumbs and the
Crusted edges are not so sweet
Anymore.

Sometimes she wished
The little things would **** her
All the risks of
Surgery, skin cancer, and stupidity
Carried no weight
For she wanted so badly for
The little things to **** her.

She caught herself daydreaming
Of the possibility that today
Would never lead to another tomorrow
That way the little things -
The sudden and accidental car crash,
The one in a million lightning bolt,
The simple but fatal misdiagnosis
Could rescue her.

For her, death was not to be feared.
How could it possibly be worse
Than the concept of life -
Waking each day hopeful
Going to bed each night disappointed -
Disappointed in herself for failing
To outrun the bitter criticism
She imposed on herself.

So cowardly.
So weak.
So broken.

Pathetic.

And so she kept wishing
For the little things,
Hopeful
That they'd save her from
The bigger things:
Her regrets, her failures, her emptiness
But as always
She was disappointed.