ugh
its her again
the girl who walks with her head down whenever
she passes by
the girl that lets her wild and curly brown hair hang in front of her face
in her book with a fast going pen that if she were to lift her writing tool the lead would be sizzling.
she had a terrible face
a b.r.f if you will.
she always looked like she never had anything nice to say.
i wonder if she wished she was different
if she secretly loathed it.
(she did)
if she wished she could show how
happy she
possibly was.
(she did)
god if only i can see through her.
'lighten up'
theyd tell her with a little pat on the shoulder and a half smile
im trying..
shed reply in a low voice looking back into her book
i want to get rid of this side of me.
its hated by everyone i meet and i dont want to be judged by his side of me anymore..
if only i was shown how

has  this delicacy
of invading my space
and touching my soul

she
was my
first love ever
a base rock steady
in a wild sea of salty foam
receding to reveal the shells she collected
her bareness glowing in the first quarter of a neap tide moon

The fine bones of your
petite hands, skin stretching taut over the
blue rivers
of your veins
that roll and roil
across the valley of your
knuckles.

The world is held in your soft palms,
and you don't even realize you could
destroy
my universe
with a simple squeeze
of a cruel fist.

Love is a social construct. That isn’t to say you don’t feel it. A decades-old concept of romance has been shoved down your throat since childhood.

When you’re with someone and it’s real, you know it. Real relationships aren’t stereotypical; if your significant other really knows you, they will find better ways to cherish you than roses and chocolates. Real relationships are built from two separate personalities. They’re custom-made. Real relationships don’t fit into a box, so why do we keep insisting there’s only one way to “love?”

No one’s definition of love is the same– no one feels love the same way. Yet, in a conversation about it, you think you’re on the same page. I think this respective feeling transcends that word. I think it’s sad that we all try to express our own separate, unique feeling with the same three words.

mine back the ground the gesso
white walls tempered
spackeled like oranges on the limbs
the  fore the front of my scant
table and chair an apple scent
from a bowl of potpourri
the subject is inside the
two brown worn out doors
blinking as daylight fades
away