Don’t worry, I turned off my heart.
I disconnected its valves and
tapped my foot to its last beat.
I repainted the walls of its chambers
a nice neutral color that would
really brighten up the space.
No trace of love.
No trail of grief.
You wouldn’t even be able to tell
that it belonged to someone else.
I spackled the holes left behind,
plastered its cracks, sanded its nicks.
Refinished the worn floors where
too many games have been played.
With any luck, interested buyers
won’t look too closely.
“This one’s got some good bones,”
they’ll say, and marvel at its potential.
I marvel at its potential.
For now though, I’ll turn it off.
I’ll turn it off, if only for me.

Ripe on the branch,
I’ve become your burden.
Heavy with fullness,
I am now too much—
too much sweetness
beneath my skin;
too much of an ache
for eager fingers to pluck;
for an enticed mouth to bite.
Ripe on the branch,
I’ve always meant to be devoured—
enjoyed; without apology.
Now, with each breeze,
I beg to be set free.

I never grew tall enough to
confidently grasp the top shelf
cereal box on the first try.
Fumbling, I’d finger its corners—
swiping mercilessly at its edges
until I could feel it fill
the curves of my desperate palm.
It gives in. Gravity assists.
Heels hit the floor.
I won again.
Back then, Persistence was my
favorite professor who always
curved the final.

I never grew mindful enough to
confidently grasp when
I should end the chase.
Writhing, I want and want—
curating the parts of myself
I think he’d like the most, but
he never turns on the light.
I collect dust. The hour hand assists.
Heels hit the floor.
I have this lesson on repeat,
and the stop button is broken.
These days, Hope has become my
favorite form of punishment
who expertly disguises herself
as wisdom.

Maybe I’m born to set things free—
to let them go, and
watch that distance
slowly swallow them whole.
Maybe (surely) my talent is
cracking my heart, little by little.
(But only during the thunderclaps
so no one else can hear.)
Busted but beating,
I fashion its fractures
into art by
filling its spaces with
vibrant pigments and
sounds that satisfy.
Good as new, I tell myself in
a tone that’s all too familiar,
and proudly display it for anyone
willing to have look.
They pick it apart with their
curiosity— their invasive wonder.
“What do you call this piece?”
they’ll ask.
With a smile, I reply,

“Yesterday.”

Coins clink and that quickly
her mindless heart bats between
bright colors and moving lights—
pinging with bonus points
for kindness and understanding;
slingshots for extra lives
each time she feels something
and means it.

He’s not used to having a
playfield quite like this.
She makes this exciting;
a fifty-cent thrill that
he can afford to entertain
as long as he cares to.

/Insert./Launch./Flip./
Under glass, she’s untouchable—
unstoppable—
a stainless force that earns him
the high score he’s always
dreamed of having.
His string of numbers
lit in the back of.
He’s done it; he’s done.

She watches his hands drop
from the sides.
Music stops.
Bulbs dim.
Glass goes dark.
She falls again—
this time
with nothing to
catch her.

She waits; she hates
begging for the sound
of that coin to drop
one more time.

When I was in seventh grade,
I learned the basics of sewing.
The basics of how to stitch
things together in a way
that gave them a larger purpose.
I found ways to do that
with the small things
that found meaning with me
in the years that followed—
collecting them,
stitching them together,
to become part of my
larger purpose.

Books that left marks on the mind,
lyrics that realigned crooked feelings,
the magic in every corner of a flea market,
unconventional locations to kiss
a boyfriend.

Then, lightning struck that
sewing machine, while
I was mid stitch.
Smoke rose
from my unsuspecting skin.
With it, came a letter in a bottle.
And then another—
bright words and kind thoughts
that traveled up and out
from a heart as beautifully tired
as mine.
Paragraphs lined with
different kinds of love that
filled in all of the space
between my hundred stitched pieces.
Lightning struck again,
and again and again.
My smoking skin, humming electric—
my hands couldn’t type quickly enough
everything that I wanted to share.

I wrote it all.
I let it strike.
I loved its heat, its deliberate shock—
how it captivated from any distance,
and fascinated with its touch.

Lightning, though,
will always
find an exit.

It will always find
a way out and
into the ground.

I used to think I kept you like a secret.

Is it a secret if no one knows it’s being kept?
Maybe I’ll never know, but
if I did have the chops to say it out loud,
I’d tell them that
I have dreams about that plane ride.
I’d take the 6AM flight just so
the colors of the sunrise would
chase me for a thousand miles.

I’d sip my hot coffee
with too much cream at
my window seat and
make small talk with
the older woman seated beside me.
She has a kind face and
takes this flight often to visit her
son and his family.
(He relocated for work,
but couldn’t pass up the salary.)
She’d ask if I’m coming or going.
“I’m not sure yet,” I’d reply, and
offer to buy her a drink,
as I revel in and relive
every crumb of our story with her.
It’s a good one, I think.
(And she thinks so too.)
She places her hand on mine, and,
with the sincerest of smiles,
wishes me well on my adventure.

She’s always there, and I like her.

I dream that baggage claim is
a ghost town, but I
recognize your eyes beyond the carousel
before I recognize my own blue suitcase.
Sometimes you have flowers in your hand,
but you always have a hug.

There’s excitement and understanding in it—
a relief that teeters on tears
and lips that waited for so long
to whisper, “Finally.”
And I feel so safe and found.
I’m at home
in a place I’ve never been before—
in arms that have never held me.

My blue suitcase— still circling.

I laugh, and I can’t wait to tell you
that I dream of you in color.
I quickly give you instructions
on how to find me again
in case we get lost.
I tell you dream flights are cheaper
if you’re in bed before 9PM.
I don’t know if you hear me,
but before I can ask,
I’m awake.

I’m alone.

You’re my secret again.
The secret I’ve never told.
BWI direct to XNA.