We used to make paper planes
as flimsy as our confidence.
Nothing ever flew the same,
smothered by the thawing sky.
We counted the seconds
until rain ate their bodies,
"5,6,7,8".

Too afraid to go outside,
mom and dad are gone.
Hovering hips beside
the holes in our walls.
Staring out the window
as foggy breath falls.

Seaweed salad and water
before we sleep.
Thinking about
if the paper graves
are as deep  
as the cheap cliches
in our head.

You asked me if
I was sad on purpose

when I'm just a carving block
and your fingertips blades.

and my flesh is another
layer you could break through
so you did.

I had to find out bed sheets are really just
a veil of innocence when lifted looks
like regret.

I am a shallow grave
that you dug
knowing I could
never dig myself out.

and you asked me if
I was sad on purpose.

I'm eighteen now
and I have never been so selfish
I miss being afraid of things that
could never touch me but now
ballot boxes
and white men wearing suits
with red ties
keep me up at night
because my future is more
than an election
my head is full of
empty rooms where I assumed
you would want to be
and I want to know why I
fall in love with
places not people
wants not needs
words not actions
and you most of all.
I need you to teach me how to say goodbye
to all of the things that
aren't good for me before it's too late
I am only eighteen.

my fingers trace words along your spine,
and draw pictures upon moon-kissed skin.

i love you more than i will ever love another,
yet i fear the risk that accompanies such emotion.

i like to think that the pleasure is worth the pain,
but only time will tell...