Smoke me out if you want to.
There are plenty of other hills
That will welcome a sparrow
Within snug arms—
Bringing me weightless, ready
To share the sun.

I can hear your bonfire lungs,

Your prickled sensibilities
Wreak havoc on watered stone.

There is a lurching pond
The size of a dime
In my tell-all hands.

I could wait for iceberg brimstone

But I'd be left to falter
Against a drop through a needle eye.

I do not fear the heavens
Catching me lacking—
There is nothing in the bag
To hide. I carry all of me.

There is however a record shoved
Between the bookends
Of birth and death.

Let that pain or joy speak
On my behalf.
I am too tired to fight.

My heart is a hurricane

And sometimes I am lost.

My head falls to clouds

And the lightning

Shatters my hope.

There are moments of

Weakness—sure,

Although I can see

The rainbow waiting.

Tea in the morning seems like a task
Out of reach.

To be able to be myself,
Even for a moment while I take a sip.

Most mornings it’s just get up and go.
No time for even a little time.

There is no time to steep leaves
When the world begs for attention

That I’d rather give myself.
But the world does not care if I
Crash and burn in the wreckage

That is being alive.
We all pay the toll every day
When we wake and feel the sweat

On our foreheads that house dreams.

Be it tea or any other small joy,
It’s not meant to be an easy reach

Unless you sacrifice a task
In its gratifying favor.

I remember your knives and empty threats.
They echo off the walls and down the hall,
Even in places not my childhood home.
My favorite color used to be blue
Now it is a color that I always feel and I feel
Thick ink under my skin where I shouldn’t have
To be stained.
I remember when the door would slam
And my heart would slam shut too.

Will we keep our friendship around our necks
Or store it on the curio shelf?

Isn’t that a question we can never
Truly answer until time has slipped away.

I’d like to think of course,
It’s written on our skin, on our hearts,

But how can we be sure we can keep carrying
The burdens of our youth

When some are quick to store away
Each other in a forgotten memento box.

I remember you.

I miss our time, our exploration,
There were worlds traveled and life

Was too big for the lot of us.

We told stories, wrote unseen novels for
A future that was never ours.

I still hear you. How are you doing?

My blood is glue
Boiling under roof tile skin,

Under the judgmental sun
Waiting for rain to come.

My house is the aftermath
Of heaven falling straight to hell,

The adhesive peels,
Revealing the mold that we breathe.

I am in need
Of renovations that will

Stake me down, down
And ready to settle.

No more plans, no more revisions,
Just one final teardown

And a newly found
Foundation

That will keep me grounded
And satiated.