the thing about mistakes
is that nothing
feels
better than
when you're making
them
blissfully unaware
of unforeseen
consequences

At the beginning
Was an open sea
Knowing nothing
But its own
Owning every
Beach it met
Not knowing enough to feel alone

After many
Long years it finds
There is much
More for to see
Inlets and outlets
On every shore
A sense of greater freedom to be free

The sea joined
To many rivers
Seeing land
On either side
Freedom then became
Just a memory
The river's end was not in sight

But along the way
An Ocean Watershed
Joining rivers to the sea
It had to sleep
In many river beds
To see what it was meant to be

Down in the river
Flowing headlong
To the sea
Joining the
River's rage
That is where
I long to go
That is where I am meant to be.

run away
from the
pretty lies
the in-between
fake promises
the guilty
eye contacts
the half-hearted
apologies.

I've never been good at
Being touched.

Though the fingers
Of endless suitors
Have traced incomparable
Lines of affection,
They all stroke
The same wounds.

New hands feel like
Recycled lullabies,
Humming promises
Of a new melody,
Singing a remedy for
My impassivity.

Whether words fall
Passionate or
Fearful,
Endearment lines my lips
With an expiration
Long enough to convince me,
But short enough to leave me.

Reminding me:
The disintegration of
Indifference
Remains
My prerequisite
For destruction.

So before you
Touch me with
Promises of a new
Orchestration,
I'm already marking the
Days until you leave.

Because my skin
Is tired of
Intruders hidden
Behind momentary
Infatuation.

So keep your hands to yourself.

I do not belong here*
my mind whispers
in repetitive strokes
as my hands falter
and the words tumble
over my broken lips.

The atmosphere is
sticky and stifling,
squeezing all of the pure air
out of my paper bag lungs
in hot pursuit of this
singular weakness
that flickers and expands
inside my ladder chest.

The love of it all
is killing me,
slowly and with meticulous
precision.

The mourning doves
cooing their last regrets,
the poplar trees rattling
their soft lamentations,
the wind caressing
my neck upon a
sun strewn precipice-

all of it has never meant more
than a lonesome swelter
of emotions that press
and spill through the
cracks in my facade.

The flowers that reach
and bend for me
in misty golden dawns,
the endless sea
like molten metal
in the moonlight,
all of it, all of it,
wasted as it flows
through my fingertips

and I dream of floating
face down for
eternity,
where a smile
might mean something
more.