a stranger points to a smoke sign and asks if i smoke; i say no
now that stranger is a friend and my no is a sometimes
and i wonder if it was a warning when he said that smoking was bad.

had i known, i would have answered the anxiety is worse and the cancer can't really **** me when i already feel dead inside.
instead, i waved him off with a laugh that meant "i know. isn't it obvious?"

...

the rot caught up to me two years later, outside the same bar where i'd pestered another friend into putting down a box.
it was a betrayal then, when i brought the sick to my lips and inhaled the poison.
it was a betrayal again when he found out.

i tried to appease the scolding,
argue that i've stopped smoking.
would it be a betrayal now to say
"i still think of rot and decay"?

[do you have a suggestion?]

my brother pauses, turning to me;
"because you're full of great suggestions,
but you always say them too late."

he means no harm by it,
yet how do i put a name to this silence?
shutting up in compliance?

       —i shoved cotton down my throat,
       now i can't breathe—

when did the echo become louder than the scream?
maybe it was vegas, twenty-nineteen.
maybe I was never allowed to dream.

how do i speak my voice back into existence then,
when i can no longer remember its sound?
whispers, snuffed out so many times i've lost count.

[i forget.]

I spilled some blood on the bathroom floor, mama,
But I swear it was an accident.
See, my hand slipped across porcelain, mama;
My skin tore like satin.

The paint flowed like a river then, mama,
And colored me a crimson sunset.
Oh, but it made such a mess, mama,
And I know messes make you upset.

So close your eyes, mama,
'Cause you're weeping red and the tears might stain.
Red for your lost love and red for scarlet fire,
and red for the young rose cut from the briar.

Maybe now I could be poetry, mama
The type you wrote about in your younger days.
Golden sun swallowed in carmine, mama
With its last rays dying in a blaze.

swallow me, bottomless pit;
let me rest under the breadth of your expanse.
light a fire at my feet, celestial abyss,
and we may watch the shadows dance.

did you hear icarus burned for the sun?
will i, too, take the shape of a star?
[set ablaze, with heaven just out of touch]



i found a chasm at the edge of my stomach,
and i knew the darkness by name.
"welcome home, uncertainty.
i'm so glad you came."

i will learn to call you my friend.

the tug is light,
like string caught on a bracelet.
but this is his home
and these are his scissors,
and he cuts you off.
your plea is but a mild annoyance
and these four walls seem smaller alone.
they ***** you out
and that tug..
that tug is a knot caught in your throat
being washed down with liquour.

he doesn't tell you this
-not in words his lover can hear-
but he hates you.
you are small
and he hates you,
and that lover is a friend
who doesn't know to save you.

you are small and alone
and he hates you.
you'll remember to believe him
when he jokingly says so.

Because I remember things, like people,
And skateboards aren't just skateboards,
they're my best friend and the memory of her pushing me around the kitchen in her longboard.

Pool and my eightball keychain are much the same, another friend's name attached to it like his lips to a drink, because god he could drink.

My uncle's the surfers catching their first waves and my older brother is all fighter jets and firemen.

Meanwhile, my mama's all roses and red bandanas, and the poetry I try to birth every night. And I only thought about colors when referring to her and I, red and blue mixing into a perfect lilac sky, but then my ex became green. Green like the olive sthetoscope they wanted and green like the song that hopes they're happy. But green, like the various shades coloring my house, doesn't phase me anymore.

Instead, life's a bit more yellow. Yellow, like the sunflowers I'd get Dali or the chicks my goddaughter would chase after on the yard. No. Yellow like the nailpolish you ruined and yellow like the sun that rises on the east.

Yellow, like fire or passion when you play, and yellow like the colors burning up the heavens at the end of the day.


Yellow, unbeknownst, laced into that first hello.

Abuela dice que me vio en el pasillo
Cuando me había pasado todo el día en la cama
Y que la busqué a su cuarto vestida de blanco,
Pero me fui antes de que se levantara.
Es como aquel sueño en la playa,
El de la chica que parecía llevar tu cara.
Excepto que ahora es mi semblanza con la que te enmascaras.
¿Serás un pedazo de alma vagabunda,
O un eco de tu vida en esta casa?
Quizas eres el deseo de una niña,
Enterrado en el llano de una terraza
Porque la vida le supo cruel mientras la muerte la enamoraba.

Quizas eres el fantasma de lo que pudo haber sido
Efímera ilusión de algo perdido.

Solían decirme que pensaba muy alto.
Me recordaba al dicho de la lengua que se comió el gato.
Pero no es la falta de lengua el problema,
Ni la falta de palabras, sino un exceso de ellas.
《》
No sé cómo terminar el poema. No sé cómo dejar de sentir pena por ella. Por la chica que conociste y la que ahora toma su lugar. Tampoco sé cómo decir que te extraño; que no quiero que esto se nos haga cantos, que quisiera estar descansando a tu lado. Solo espero que me leas y sepas que hablo de ti, y que me puedas dar tiempo para ser la chica que fui.

As a child, I used to believe love didn't exist
Because if love was real, my dad wouldn't have left my mom
If love was real, my dad would have visited us

Then I grew up and I wasn't sure I believed in God either,
Because if God was real, He wouldn't have made my mother sick
If God was real, why did He abandon me?

And if God was love and God didn't exist, then surely love didn't either.
They became supporting statements, a hypothesis to be tested.
And then I proved myself wrong by falling in love.
And maybe, just maybe, if love was real then so was God.

But the God I knew wasn't a merciful one and the God that answered my prayers took my love.
He bundled it up and gave it away, and maybe it isn't that God doesn't exist and neither does love, but that maybe, just maybe, I'm not meant to be loved.

i took your socks.
i don't remember if you wore shoes—
but just before they took you,
i took your socks.
i don't know why.
you didn't need them,
but i regretted it instantly.

later i bought you new socks:
long, cable-knit ones to keep you cozy.
to keep you warm.

i'll never forget.

Sometimes I want to die.
I'm not sure what comes after.

Grandpa says we're reborn amongst the stars,
That maybe we'll live on Mars.
I wonder if the sunrises would be just as colorful,
Or if the sky will drown in the same rusty red as the ground.

It's a recurring thought; the ins and outs of it all.
I think about it almost as often as grandma says she regrets keeping us.
That she should have let dad's family raise us to avoid all the fuss.
And that last bit stings.
It used to be my character was just like his,
The slap to the face I'd get for correcting her in front of others.
Now it's remorse for the life she led and throwing punches without the proper covers.
Bruised knuckles are better than split skin and sometimes the thought of getting caught is enough to stop a robber.

《》

Sometimes I want to die.
I'm not sure what comes after,
But Heaven would sound a lot like your laughter.

at the end of the day,
i know i tried my best
and when all was done
i thought i could rest
but you've got sharp teeth
-knife above my breast-
did i ever hear your heart beat?
or just mine echoing in your chest?