that love we thought we had
is centuries old
and centuries failed
and there are only so many words that haven’t been arranged
artfully and articulately enough
to be considered
interesting—
isn’t that interesting?
the new and the old the
timid and the bold
—there are all sorts of people, sure
but they are all versions of the same ones
so that in this contrived
circle of [seldom present]
consciousness
the spiral continues on and so
we do
too

that night it was hailing outside
the stars had frozen and fallen from their perches
and when they hit my cheek I
brushed my finger to my lips instead
because they were burning

If Only rings in my head
and won't stop to
let me breathe

i loathe this in-between place
they say it is beautiful, but i disagree
i am scared and don't know which way to lean
so that i may stay upright
& i don't know whether the sea is below my soles
or above my head
& i don't know where i should want it to be

she was a paper girl:
her thoughts were written across her face
and she could crumple
quite easily

sometimes she could fold herself neatly
into little squares
so that all seemed good and
organized and
right

but if you were to unfold her, the words would come rushing at you like a tidal wave and you’d drown in the alphabet soup of her soul