i want to let you go

so i can ring my bell

who wouldnt settle for a life of lonely cattle

my bell

who wouldnt burden its own soul with even a spiders thread of strife and bitter woe

i want to let you go

so i can own my wrongs

so i can lose my pitiful pride

so i can choose to cast this ache into the cold night air

scream my truth

i didnt think i deserved a better kind of love

release this nothingness into the nothingness

forget the emptiness

i want to let you go

your fractured love

so begrudgingly bestowed

i want to ring my bell

to remember it doesnt matter where i come from

it only matters where i choose to go

I built you a home in my heart
like a bird nests in a tree,
you nestled your way in:
nesting, building, capturing.

I built you a home in my heart
like the flowers make waves in meadows,
fighting every element:
growing, blooming, capturing.

I built you a home in my heart
like the stars gather into constellations,
painting galaxies in the darkness:
drafting, mapping, capturing.

I built you a home in my heart,
just like the one you made for me in yours:
warm and inviting;
just like you captured my heart.

Broken,
she tied her veins in knots;
her heart, she tore
until it gasped with every beat;
she lined her corneas
with her fingers; she wrote
until they were too afraid,
too dry,
to leak anymore.
She used her wrists like a diary,
writing away all the pain
—or so she thought—
for her limbs were haunted
by a girl of the past
—a ghost
whom her pupils still cannot separate
the rods and cones
to discern as herself.

The moon tells me stories about you, darling
– sends me lines in the form of constellations and planets,
while I see visions of you in my sleep,
and can feel the warmth of your capillaries
around my bones
making alive again my pulse
and wakening my corneas,
and all I want when my pupils begin to see
those rods and cones
are yours
looking right back at me
taking me in small doses;
while I’ll take you all at once.

Were we guilt of trying to be something we were not?
Unpleasantness went unspoken:
death, ***, depression
Ideas which did not exist
in our buttercup yellow
stake in suburbia

Like a slate was held
over the tops of our heads
keeping knowledge out
keeping pain in
where it festered in our bones
and our minds became darkened
all the same

Dispassionate parents
whose fire rests unknown
bred a lost generation
I and my sisters,
our little brother
all burning up inside.
Contradicting notions
manifesting themselves over the years

Who will we become?
Where does the path
of a sterile, manicured
lawn lead?

It leads to each other
that is how we will find ourselves
in the flesh of our flesh.

amber jeweled room
mountain mist of curtain lifts
sunlight drinks the day

There is this place
that dwells inside the center
of a sphere:
it sells wolves, confined to
threads and linens
captured, but free;
it contains rarities and b-sides,
full of dreams
and their captives.
It is Indigenous and
full of folk tales
from old times
to be deciphered and listened to
by those who have, all this time,
been searching for themselves.

I knew a man
that specialized in the phases of the moon
-- knew that, in a ventimous amount,
wolves grow with the
lunar waxing;
he fell in love with the beauty of it all,
found that
all this time
had passed
to turn him as well
into the version
venti himself.

so i've been thinking
don't tell anybody
where we're going
and don't worry
about anything
baby that
challenger
deep
will eat
up the tsunamis like
ice cream sandwiches