The air in this room is heavier at night,
it inflates my lungs like water balloons.

I think about what loneliness is,
learning that I'm the only breathing body here.
A twin sized bed is plenty of room for me;
I can't sleep in a crowded blanket
pushing two sets of shoulders together,
like a suitcase slipping overstuffed clothes
through gaping zipper teeth.

I only have one chair in here,
barley enough comfort for one.
But this room needs another life,
two more lungs to share the air.

There won't be enough seating,
or a place for your clothes.
But I won't mind stretching this blanket
to cover four shoulders.

I remember as a kid
I would lie with my face next to a bed sheet,
And the closer I slid,
The wrinkles became waves and I imagine a desert of dunes and heat.

Or pull close to a wall below a window sill,
And press myself right up against it until,
All I could see was the edge with the light outside like a beacon.
And imagine I was trapped from a fall in a canyon .

The thing about imagining you're small is you feel more alone than you actually are.
The space between is the same, it just seems bigger.
Because you're more out of reach.

It's the ones that get a hit, maybe two
That'll shred your soul apart
It's the poets with followers a few
Who's writing pierces the heart.

It's the poems that you can't believe aren't trending
That are worth a read and then another
It's the poems that are beautiful and rending
That should be on this site's cover.

a little girl, perhaps 5-6, sits in the meadow and picks flowers. she picks the flowers slowly, meticulously. she looks up and sees a beautiful teenaged girl, with a long flowing dress and short hair with splotches missing. the teenager sits with the little girl. "what happened to your hair?" the little one asks.

"once upon a time,
I picked flowers just like you.
but I picked them all."

the young girl listens and keeps picking her flowers.

"I met a boy who
promised I was beautiful
and made me feel so."

the teenager begin taking the flowers and winding them together. she grabs her knitting needles out of her handmade purse and continues working on a hat to keep her hands busy.

"he always told me
that my head was too pretty
for me to be sad."

"Did he love you?" the little girl asks, playing with her hands.

"perhaps he did, but
he never said that he did.
he never told me."

"after I ran out
of flowers, I began pull-
ing my long hair out."

"please don't end up like me." the teenager says, handing the girl the hat.

For as long as I can remember,
I've been practicing safety drills.
school, home, the work place, even planes.

Everyone wants to be prepared
for those so-called natural disasters.
It's stunning how they never think to
prepare you for heart break.
It's so much more common.

You are the earthquake that has me
braced for an aftershock. I am hiding
under doorways, diving for the protection
of restaurant tables. My survival kit
is fresh out of healing, and my wounds are
growing agitated. Why wasn't I prepared for this?

Algebra and Grammar won't help me
get out of bed tomorrow morning.
Testing door handles to see if they are hot
will only keep me away from flesh wounds.
Zoology taught my to dissect a frog,
but your vital organs are so much harder to locate.

Is there even a heart inside your chest?