There’s something so hopeful
about a pitch black sky—
the kind of deep and ominous nothing
that couldn’t care less about your
renewed sunrise and
clean slated second chances.
There’s a calm in that darkness
that I **** up in one breath.
I hold it there, in my swollen lungs,
until I go a purple fit for her majesty,
and any specks of light that catch my eye
tessellate and turn and repeat.
This world becomes a slow song
caught in a kaleidoscope,
and I’m dancing,
happily,
happily alone.

Leaving the door unlocked—
while I’m in the shower—
of the apartment—
where I live alone—
in the unpolished part of town—
seems like a bad idea.  

But see, I know that it will be you
walking through said door
when I hear the slow creak of its hinges.

So I relax,
and lean into the hot water—
fearless—
anxious—
knowing I've purposely left
the bathroom door open too.

It was a hope, but mostly me,
rust red and tired—
resembling the person who you’d
take the time to tell goodbye.

It was.

Now such a hope is taking shape
as that pretty sight you see
in your rearview mirror—
perhaps,
the shape of the clouds
outside of your window seat—
either way, she
dons designer shades,
a wickedly telling curve
on her lips,
and her *******—
a beacon,
held proudly to the sky.

It's laundry day.
All ******* and bras in queue.
Hey there, bathing suit.

Grumpy, middle-aged woman at work,
I wonder if you see me staring in your direction.
I, once again, notice your big hair,
tousled and littered with springy grays.
I, once again, notice your blouse,
dribbled with escapees of your breakfast and lunch.

You’re tapping your foot
to an eighties ballad on the radio—
the same one that we hear twelve times a day,
and each time, I grit my teeth and
begrudgingly swallow the godfather of all expletives.
But you? You love it, don’t you?

No qualms with the world
as you grip that vending machine Klondike Bar
like it’s your only saving grace.
I can’t even manage to blink
as I watch you peel back its thin layer of foil,
exposing the poor chocolate shell
that will soon fall victim to such a savage mouth.  
I shudder at the thought of what you would do
for a Klondike Bar.

Your eyes are wide, black, and merciless
as you crunch into that innocent little square.
Flecks of dark brown fly in every direction,
as you writhe in some sort of hokey ecstasy
straight out of a grocery store mom-erotica.
I can just hear you grunt, “Waste not, want not!”
as you individually finger up
each tiny piece off your keyboard.
I hear your lips smack with every satisfying victory—
and I cringe.

I want to tell you your ice cream is melting,
but I’m too busy watching it drip
down the sides of your hand.
In no time, this Klondike Bar
becomes your own personal rescue mission.
You must desperately save each and every sticky streak
with your unforgiving tongue.
Now and then you’ll slip in a satiated moan
and I can’t help but feel bad for your imprisoned dessert.
Unfortunately, this vicious cycle continues with each bite,
until you become the resident hot mess of Cubicleville,
smeared with melted chocolate and covered in a sugary sheen.

Despite the spectacle, it’s nice to see you happy for once.

It ends when you finally notice my gawk.
That quickly, you’re grumpy again
and demand to know what I’m staring at.

“Nothing,” I reply,
but not without a smile so coy
it gives me away.

Sweet, but not too sweet.
Life balances
on the tongue of fate—
clicking and rolling
behind her cackles and trills,
while we act as if
these bitters are all we’ll ever
have the chance to taste.
“Breathe and savor,” she says,
“Too much sugar will rot your teeth.”

If I called all of your bluffs out loud,
we’d be here for months, and
my voice would waste away
to a bitter nothing.

But I need these pipes, and
ain't nobody got that kind of time to spare.  

So I’ll smile and quietly
call each of those bluffs to myself.
In gentle whispers, I’ll trim the fat,
and slowly examine the parts of you
that make sense.

I’ll soon notice that
my salt pile’s used up from taking a pinch
with each and every thing you say.
I would replenish it, but
I’m feeling too cheap, and
it seems the rest
of the sweethearts out there
need those grains more than I do.

Don’t you worry though—
this kind of cheap looks good on me.
See, I am so sick of being thirsty
and aching for that
truth
like
honey.

I am an instrument with proud, inexcusable curves,
finished in a deep stain that shows my wear,
how I was loved—
the hands that have touched me.
It accentuates my grooves, my nicks.
It implies the things I've seen
and the music I've created.

I hang on the wall in the far left corner.
One of many walls in this room of a thousand others like me,
made to perform the very same tasks.

It's quiet here.
Echoes in our hollowed bodies,
amplified from the smallest sounds.
All of us, hiding away until we're found,
recognized—and stroked and strummed.
Poor and pitted, waiting
for the completion of hands, and minds,
and unmatched understanding of how and when.

There is a hope, when the lights come up—
when the footsteps approach my wall.
Although he hasn't yet, the thought alone sustains me.
I can feel him
lift me off of my holds,
run his hands down my pronounced edges,
and tune me with precision
by his classically trained ear.
He twists and plucks,
as I contract and give and give again.

I only play beautifully for him.
I vibrate to hum
making notes that require
no accompaniment.
For a stretch of time, I have purpose.
My hollowness
becomes a haunt for untethered melodies.
He makes me something I cannot otherwise be.

The maestro,
the maestro and me.

Last night, I ate
the god ****** apple.
I plucked it from its branch
in plain sight.
There it sat, smooth and round,
in my eager palms—
tantalizing with promises
of fulfillment that causes
a hungry jaw to tingle at its corners.
I grazed it, playfully, with my teeth
before giving into my ultimate desires
to let the sweet juices pop
and run down my chin.
Then, charged with a satisfaction
that pulsed electric down my spine,
I took bite after bite,
easing into something
I had taught myself not to need;
a keen knowledge of indulgent pleasure
that makes woman, woman,
and woman wanted.
I reveled there in the heat of it all,
naked, sticky, and fully absolved
of that restless, nagging guilt.

I mean, come on,
Eve just wanted to know ****.

“It,” not so easily defined,
catches and clouds in my throat.
Previously shot down
in a blistering passion, and riddled
with disappointment,
vague answers to important questions,
and the kind of wasted possibility
you’ve seen in a used syringe
abandoned by the park fence.
Although it may seem
wounded and unkempt,
I can feel its remaining life
writhing, wondering, and desolate.
So I let it grow, with no hope of air,
and with my eyes closed, it thrives—
sprouting fresh white plumage,
collecting its strength,
pecking, p-peck, pecking
at the back of my tongue
and ******* up my oxygen.
It’s the taste of blood
that makes me come to
before the riotous flutter of feathers
works its way
to the edge of my lips.
I watch as it lifts off, up, out, and away—
wings spread in a striking spectrum
of well-played deception.
It flies, now, fearlessly—
commandeering its own air,
and I breathe easily
knowing that it won’t die
with me.

I want that easy, slow-dancing-in-the-kitchen kind of love—
something so free and so simply performed,
sunsets envy how naturally it settles in for the night.

A little ball of brilliance,
occasional stroke of genius,
has trouble finding Jesus,
but practices her patience.
Her mind? No problems speaking it,
so she never valued silence,
and depending on the season,
her shoes are just a hindrance.
Yet lady follows every sequence
achieving her achievements—
chooses paths not quite so lenient,
drums those patterns not quite so seamless.
Despite the lack of easiness
she never masters the art of grievance,
but lady loves with a vengeance
and makes love with ******* vehemence.
Although lady was obedient
and always vowed him her allegiance,
lady never found it quite convenient
to be inconveniently a convenience.

{I can live life unfiltered.

I preen and uncover the riotous feathers
I always felt I had to tuck away.

When I cause those laughs,
or at the very least, those grins,
it seems suddenly, I have swallowed
something much like the sun—
all of the lit space in its seams,
and I become bright,
unchallenged, and with purpose.

I live life proudly and profoundly undressed.

To feel comfortable in my own skin
will never be this natural in any other context.

I am rarely a creature of grace, but
when I feel those fingers
run down the length of my bare back,
I become a word so treacherously beautiful,
writers are too hesitant to pen it.

Wrapped up in those arms,
I find that I fit; I’m home; I’m safe.

I get an unmatched pleasure out of
watching such a mind work—
in awe of how it knows when things fit together,
the way it peels, layers, creates, and stimulates.

No, seriously though, the mind thing?
[Nothing turns me on more.]

The same fears are shared—
of living a cliché and settling,
of pain and disfigurement,
but mostly of
endings.

I find contentment
in simply being held in the
silent repose of the morning
before my small world is awake,
and the street lamps are still
competing with the dawn.

It’s occurred to me that this has
made me into something marvelous
I didn’t know existed. }

Just know,
why I keep you around can’t be explained
johnny-on-the-spot.
See, when asked,
my little heart crescendos, and all of the words
rush to tangle on the back of my tongue.
I pull the phrases out, word by word,
and string them the way
they were meant to be read.

Don't be discouraged
by an answer of “I don’t know.”
It sometimes buys
the necessary time
for one to display the whole truth—
one that that lovely, whiskey-soaked head
can’t fully comprehend in that moment.

But maybe,
I keep you around
simply
*because.

Picked from a high shelf; me,
no stranger to quiet and dust.
Examine my spine
before you crack it.
Part my pages to
finger my words.
Messages and meanings
ravenously devoured—
syllables and syntax,
contentedly noshed.
Happy to have something
to hold; me,
just happy to be held.
Yet, no place was marked
when you snapped me shut
without warning or regard.
Back to the shelf I went,
unfinished and untold—
into the familiar dust; me,
never knowing just
how I end.

Last night I lived in a place
where every person communicated
in slam poetry.

We threw the truth out there
beautiful and bare—
clarity in metaphor.
The words charmed even the few
that found their niche
in refusing to listen.

No sweet tooth for sugarcoats—
we devoured in transparency.
The right words flowed steadily
out of our mouths
and seeped down our chins—
like we were born to do it.

Every expelled word
gingerly painted by way
of our eager tongues
and thirsty lips.
What we had to say
could be stopped by nothing.

Now,
imagine my disappointment
when I woke up
and couldn't even find the courage
to tell you
                      *“good morning.”

She is not folded in the crooks
of crooked grins
or enveloped in the yuks
that follow poorly executed jokes.
She pays no mind
as she singes the edges
of those brave enough
to approach her.
She spits on empathy
and disregards
the “what ifs” or “why nots.”
Rarely spoken aloud,
she is deafening
when confined to quiet corners,
and will lurk there,
unmentioned and unforgotten.

When permitted to surface,
she looks nothing like you’d expect—
badly disguised and undeniably
                        ugly,
with unforgiving features
that have been bent and twisted—
coated with
a sticky sugary sheen.
She demands to be considered,
as she slides, jagged and bitter,
off of the tongue
and into the light.

She’s always there,
regardless of any acknowledgement—
closer than we desired,
bigger than we imagined,
wiser than we hoped.
She, the *****
that we are forced
to shake hands with.

In the quiet hours
before the sun,
I shed a thousand
layers of you.
Dead, heavy skins
flutter to the ground
to decorate my ankles,
until suddenly,
I’m light.
So light that I float
and, as I rise,
breathe in
the whole universe.
I see colors—
new to my eyes.
I feel safe here,
knowing there is
no happiness
like mine.

Young, fresh, unsuspecting—
I was her once.
Instead, now I am the subject
of her pining curiosity.
“When will you get married?”
I empathize and recognize
that my 30 to her 16 seems to be
soft, ripened fruit
on the verge of a good, wasteful spoil.
The smile that cracks on my lips
begs to grow into laughter,
and I resist.
I was her once.
I still catch flecks of her
in the corners of my eyes whenever
I see love take one of its many shapes.
My answer.
“Single admission still gets you
into the same movie, kid.”
Looking in the rear view mirror,
I catch that fleck and keep quiet.

Your move, universe.

He smiles kindly
and with a steady hand
dips brush into color,
decorating every inch
with precision and care.
He paints no two souls alike,
but yet leaves his distinct mark,
so bright and profound;
touched and, without question,
we’ve been bettered.
Each of us now proudly stretched,
on display for the rest of a lifetime.
A work of his art, never caged,
but free to come and go,
free to be.

White knuckles, clenched
ping-pinging on textured glass.
Unfazed, he turns his cheek,
followed closely by his deaf ear.
So I stay
stuck, hopeless,
tugging on some hem,
with a relentless, gut-twisting
hunger to be acknowledged,
to be comforted and cradled,
to be lulled and hushed—
pleading him
to poke some holes in the lid of this jar.

I used to oxygenate
my blood so beautifully—
flush my pale skin to pink, press it against yours,
and breathe.
When I had air, I used to inhale so deeply.
I used to live.
I used to conquer.
I would wake myself before the dawn,
if only
to brighten his dark corners.

I used to breathe before life in this jar.
I used to catch his glances and
celebrate as the reason for his smiles.
Before life in this jar, I could reach him,
and he would reach me.
He would pick me up in his smooth palm and
hold me in my place in the sun.
With warmed cheeks,
I’d kiss him softly on the forehead
and thank him in wide, grinning whispers
for the lift.

Before life in this jar
he would never find me
gasping for the strength to
make breathy apologies simply for existing.

He would never find me enjoying
such a slow motion asphyxiation
like I do
as I live life
in this jar.

Drives to the lake in the dead of winter
where frost hushed every living inch.
These were my favorite.
Leftover snow cakes the water’s still edges.
The scene looks like a cheaply-framed painting
that someone abandoned at the Goodwill.
I smile, because we cherished tchotchkes like that.
The beauty, it’s there, if you tilt your head just so.
This girl, with her magic, she taught me
how to find happiness in the simple things;
that song that you’d love enough to memorize
could save your life on a sad day.
Boys were simply there for amusement;
adventure was only a car ride and a trespass away.
Life was at its coolest when it was secondhand,
and price tags were a waste of paper.
The farmer’s market on the one-way
was our very own Marrakesh,
where we’d fill the air with spices
and let them trail on the tails of our long sweaters.
But drives to the lake in the dead of winter,
where the stars seemed to wait
for us to fill the space between them with laughter.
These were my favorite.
Wrapped tightly in scarves, we’d oblige them;
happy that we could not predict the future;
happy without knowing this end.

No single thing in
existence scares me more than
living a cliché.

This is fact:
The pig is a filthy animal.
Stewing in a self-created defecation so foul,
the stench will turn your stomach
and stick to your clean, human skin for hours.

Now consider:
A sow's ****** can last up to 30 minutes.

The conclusion:
Filthy sounds good to me.

I dug up the last of them
from the backyard
and plucked each
from a rusty coffee can.
Creased and yellowed,
I smoothed them out,
tracing their folds
with my dirt-caked fingernails.

These are all of my secrets I tell you.
Synonymous with mistakes you tell me.

In that moment, something leaden,
like guilt,
threads through my pursed lips,
but I don’t let it pull tight.
I carefully rip each stitch, instead,
and remember why they were buried.
With my seamless smile,
I grin widely, without doubt,
knowing it was okay
to finally let them breathe.

Texting gloves? Useless.
Stubby fingers fall short of
those heat-sensing tips.

Jealousy.
I don’t like to say the word.
I dislike the shape of her.
The way she dips and curves—
she ends on a self-assured slant
as if to imply that you’ll be back for more.
 
Nothing sweet to offset her bitter bite
as her slimy saltiness rolls over your tongue.
She seeps into each and every open crevice.
To resist her is useless—
she’s designed to commandeer.
Your mouth will only produce words
soaked with her disdain. 
 
It's no secret you're at her mercy
as you watch another’s fingers
run through his hair.
If you have teeth, grit them.
If you have fists, clench them.
Narrow your gaze until  
her green vines uncoil and twist through
your arms, your legs.
A cartographer crafting
a brand new map of veins
pumping something stronger than blood.

Your misery is her victory,
and she makes no promise
to quiet her celebration.

Eyes fall on him, and I just know
the boy's soul sounds like an intricate piano crescendo.
Chords carrying complimenting rhythms
slicing through the thick, humid air of some summer night
in a hidden park overgrown with ivy vines.

I listen, without strain, to his overlapping notes,
as I grab at my chest, aching with empathy
but lulled by a contentment deep-rooted in recognizing
that there is someone else who shares my song.

Thirty-two is fourteen short of forty-six.
Thirty-two collects pools of hope,
and swims naked in them without fear.
It no longer wears a muzzle
but proudly wears a mask.
Thirty-two sees through a lens
of remarkable colors.
Its prismatic visions are
years ahead of its time.
Thirty-two tastes like tinny blood
on a tongue bitten for far too long;
it sings confidence
through chipped teeth—
freed from four years of clenched disgust.
Thirty-two does not have time
to stop and smell the roses,
but will demonstrate how
to make perfume from them, instead.
It has the words that
thirty-one never had
and keeps them in a pocket
that will accidentally go through the wash.
Thirty-two walks in the opposite direction,
but ends up on greener grass.
It orders a drink with a covered smile
and still generously tips the rude bartender.
Thirty-two prefers both
honey and vinegar to catch its flies,
and professes that knowledge
is a weapon best sharpened by modesty.
Thirty-two is an even number with
an odd beginning.
It suggests that what comes next
might have even more curves.
Thirty-two sets the stage for transformation,
but, more importantly,
drops the mic.

When she was much younger,
they all used to stroke her long, dark hair
and bathe her in compliments.
“Oh this one—she’s so smart, so wise, so clever.”
Syllable by syllable, the words soaked into her skin.
Perfumed in praise, she grew up believing it all—
that she was a step ahead of the rest.
Whatever picture everyone else saw,
she saw the bigger one.
And the girl did.
She worked the biggest knots with well-oiled fingers
and always knew better before better got the best of her.
She learned everything she needed to know
from all of the books she read and collected.

But every Little Red Riding Hood comes across her own Big Bad Wolf.
Hers with a smile so much more cunning than any storyteller could do justice.
He’d stroke her long, dark hair and bathe her in compliments too,
“Oh this one—she’s so soft, so kind, so comforting.”
Wise Little Red followed him everywhere,
down dark and twisted paths with crooked trees,
other snarling beasts and poisonous flora that tingled her nose
and filled her lungs and clouded her judgment.
She didn’t even think to mark her trail
so that she could find her way home when she’d need to.
And when the wolf turned, like all of the stories told her he would,
When he barred his teeth, growling at her like a threatening stranger—
she knew he had decided that she was no longer a friend.
She had gotten too close to him and too far from home.

As she struggled to find her way back,
Little Red realized that her books were good for nothing.
The only things worth learning
are on those dark, twisted paths… lined with dangers,
with nothing but her own nose to follow.
And she laughed alone, knowing that her kept wits
would be the only thing to keep the wolves at bay.

I’m just so tired
of carrying around these heavy bones,
of synthetic smiles and empty words,
of meaningless ***,
of dreams that cling to the sides of my head;
this chewed up, spat out,
sticky, deformed hope—
the kind you unknowingly step on,
carry with you for awhile
and notice suddenly
with a face twisted in disgust.
The same reeking kind you spend hours
digging out of the soles of your shoes
with a broken stick.

And just I’m tired.

I’m tired
of ******* the poison out of this wound,
of tasting its hot, tinny infection,
of the uncertainty of recovery,
of your one-man audience.
I’m tired of being tired,
and I’m tired of admitting
that I was a naive enough
to offer up the best parts of myself
to something pining for so much less.
I
will never be
less.

I’m tired, but I’m here.
I’m here, and I’m searching.
When I find myself again,
when I regenerate all of those best parts,
I won’t be tired.
I’ll be this amazing
[*******]
spectacle,
and I’ll make sure you and less
have the finest mezzanine seats
for the one thousand mic drops
I always knew I had in me.

I don't twerk, but see,
I'm pretty sure my soul does
when you say my name.

Take a breath, curl your toes
over the edge of some unknown.
Recognize how high you feel
only to look down and find
just how small your worries are
compared to this.
This.
The edge of something beyond
any warm-blooded imagination.
Let go, it says.
Let your hair tangle
in the spokes of the universe.
Let it sound and bend the notes
of this journey.
Let it write the music for a song
you'll welcome to stay stuck
in that wonderful little head of yours.
Let it sing.

I stand, all alone, in the desert. It’s night, but the sky isn’t dark—it just hangs there—a deep blue background for the millions of stars I was never acquainted with while I lived among the light pollution a thousand miles from here. They tickle my eyes as they fade in and out of vision, covering everything in a cool, silvery glow. I stand beneath them, letting their light wash over me too. They have this way, I think to myself, of making everything seem beautiful—the kind of light that catches you in all of the right places.

There is nothing to interrupt my thoughts here—nothing to deflect and offset my own harsh criticisms. I hope for an interference of some kind, but there is just silence and the churning of self-reflection that hums hot through the sides of my head.

I think about how you would revel in this kind of quiet—this sort of loneliness. I imagine you swallowed whole by it—the space, the silence, the darkness; how it would make you smile. And I smile thinking of your smile. I smile so hard at the thought of your happiness that my mouth suddenly cracks into a scream. What comes out of me is so loud, so long, so full of everything that I had tucked into the secret niches of me, that it shoots out into the night and smatters the whole of the sky.

The gorgeous dark blue fragments come down first; slowly falling from above like fine silks, decorating the curves and edges of this dusty desert.  The millions of stars hang there for a moment, still glittering over nothingness. They hesitate, handsomely, and one by one, they start to descend. Then, by the fistful, they come crashing down. What follows is a sound— a thousand cymbals in a rainstorm—deafening but peaceful and powerfully calming. I let them cover me, exploding and splintering as they make contact, drenching me in a marvelous warm light. It drips from the ends of my hair and the tips of my fingers. I taste its tinny glow on my lips, and I can feel its brightness catch in my lungs and cloud my breath. The sensation brings me to my knees.  I hush my thoughts into the happiest unprecedented tears and exhale.

It won’t be long now until they find me here.
It won’t be long before they realize that I’m the girl who misloved so deeply, she up and brought down the whole **** sky.

Its teeth are longer and sharper
than any other unforgiving beast on this planet.
The hairs that ***** on the back of its neck
are charged solely by curiosity,
and its eyes burn electric yellow—
never breaking gaze with so much as a blink.
Indigenous to every silent crack of this earth,
it requires no sleep or acclimation.
No living thing can out run it,
and if it sets its sight in your direction,
do not try to argue your fate.
Its presence alone will bring you to your knees,
and wherever it chooses to sink its fangs
will ensure immediate affliction.
This—a  sickness of insatiable wonder.
To sit still now will surely be the death of you,
because, darling, you’ve been bitten—
plagued forever with knowing that
millions of somewheres have suns
that are rising, and you cannot rest
until you’ve had a chance to paint them all.

I watch the music maker
and wonder if he holds his women
the same assured way he holds his guitar.
I wonder if his fingers memorize their curves
the same way they memorize measures.
I wonder what he does with his sheet music
when it has nothing left for him to learn.
If I were his, I’d insist he hand it to me.
Each stack I’d fold into delicate flying creatures
and send them off into the sky.
With their pointed wings,
they’d strum clouds and pluck stars—
making messages in melodies
to remind the world
why she chooses to keep spinning.

While I was sleeping,
you snuck in through the window.
I can only hope you had the usual
sly grin stretched across your lips.

You had a strict agenda
& pockets full of good intentions.
Slinking around the perimeter
of my living room,
you gingerly fondled each piece of my literature
& slipped little folds paper
between the pages of every book.

In green ink,
you had written snippets of song lyrics
& the quotes less quoted
by those famous individuals
we had both come to admire.

It was a dream,
& in it, I grew older.
But I continued to discover them—
flashes of green
slow-floating to the floor
whenever I’d crack open one of their tired spines.

I’m glad you can manage
to seep into my subconscious
now and again,
& trick me
**into dreaming in color.

I’m going to live life until it bursts—
softly place it between my teeth
and bite down until it pops
so its juices flood and trickle
out the corners of my mouth.

I’ll revel in my sweet, sticky mess—
stained cheeks, glazed chin—
leaving my mark on everything I touch.
Others will insist I clean up,
keep my hands to myself,
act
act like
act like a
act like a lady.

But as long as
there is life to taste,
I refuse to chew
with my mouth closed.

The weather plays me
just as well as anything.
Some sun would be nice.

Hell is fluorescent lights and the clicking of mice;
a place where the mind can’t breathe;
a place where the soul forgets her wings;
a place where the only flickers of wonder
are found in well-constructed Excel formulas.
This was never my kind of magic.
I often question why the little rectangles
on a spreadsheet are called “cells” instead of “boxes.”
Then it dawned on me: this is because
working these things as a daily job function
is the closest you can get to feeling prisoner
without committing a felony.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell remains sedentary, listening to the same
fifteen rotating songs on a soft rock radio station
chosen by someone who makes triple your wages.
It’s prepackaged breakfast out of a vending machine,
eaten in a 4x4 cubicle that’s
fixed in a room without a single window.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell is a cheap Chinese finger trap:
failing to find release
by pulling in wrong directions.
It’s a tight trickery that insists you stay
because you have nowhere else to go;
but my kind of magic is the inward force
that has met a friendly freedom.
It’s bathed in inviting shades of turquoise,
and fell in love with the solace of the desert.
It’s memorized the curves of mountain peaks
and collected freckles from every angle of the sun.
It loves the rush of blood to the head,
when racing the sunrise
on the edge of some atmosphere.
Something that hell could never
put its thumb on; this is
my kind of magic.

It's a weird feeling.
I sneezed so hard I think I
popped an *****.

Don’t be afraid, little heart.
It’s simple, really.
Be smarter than to believe what’s promised,
and you’ll always have the courage
to keep beating for something,
something better.

It’s a marvel—
how the human heart
can continue to want that same something
that so willingly smashed it to a thousand pieces.
It’s a wonder how it still beats
as it watches that something
meticulously plaster each of those
one thousand fragments onto its
mural of damaged conquests.

But the heart is in good company, I guess.
At least its own pieces have a commonality
with its surrounding neighborly shards.
Together they can be sharp and exude mystery—
no longer desired to be touched or examined
by the pairs of eyes that closely study their edges.

That something? He steps back.
With a grin ear to ear, he
enjoys the whole of his piecemeal creation.
With his beautiful hands,
he forces all of them to fit together,
Reminiscing as he watches them dry,
cementing them to memory,
telling his tales of pushes and pulls,
of warmth and chills.
Damage, his only true medium,
he finds much easier to manipulate than oils or pastels,
and that something, he is a master of his craft.

He contorts each of us into his own work of art,
fixed for the public eye with sticky regret
and dried by the countless nights of cold wonder.
And we wait, patiently, until his craftsmanship folds.
Until the plaster chips and crumbles.
Each of our pieces falling to the ground
in the hopes that someone will
pick us up, pocket us,
and appreciate the sullen beauty
in something that once was whole.

At the ripe age for plucking.
To be plucked
right off of this eligible branch.
But such a stem stays fixed.
Stubborn and stuck fast—
happy to be connected
to everything that makes me grow.
And others ask, they ask how
I can possibly remain
so incredibly unplucked.
And the others, I tell them,
my heart swells and breaks
with every breath and blink.
I dip it in the bright pools of
those slow-peeled grapefruit sunsets
and use it to finger
the bruised blue leftovers
of the time just before sunrise.
I air it out in the currents
of wish-made gusts from thousands
of floating dandelion seeds,
and I stitch its holes shut
with scraps of  mother thread
left behind by moth-eaten fates.
Every day, all over again,
between beats, I learn to ****
the poison from it
with my own lips,
so it can swell and break
at its very own pace.
I remain unplucked, I say,
so when I find a soul
that matches mine,
he won't have to teach me how.

Faded ink.
Deep, majestic black to a shy blue
hints at a thrill that no longer thrives
but serves an imprinted reminder
of a time that breathed happiness.

Around and around,
days into nights,
we grew into each other
without notice.
Weighted contours
made beautifully complex shapes,
we’d  twist and curve
harmonic and sound,
constantly moving
in these flawless, repeating circles.

When it ends—
[and it will,
because the monotony
of the same motion
will scare you]
you’ll be left wondering how
you could sit there and become
so immersed in something
that was so perfect and simple.
Perfectly simple.
You stop and step back.
You breathe and regret.
You take it in and admire.
The saddest part
is to realize that this piece is left
unfinished.
No closure, no color,
just the monotone outlines
of some gorgeous, accidental idea.

Assume the employee smiles as you
wait in line for a sanitized shopping cart.
Assume she has slight imperfections
in her front teeth as you do.
Tiny chips from hard candy mishaps
back in the early 2000s
that you choose to notice while
you examine your mouth in the mirror.
Assume that they're eyes are telling the truth--
they didn't wake up with a fever this morning,
and neither did the lady or her four kids behind you.
Assume by their relaxed body language
that we're all still safe from something we can't see.
Assume that since your own smile is naked,
somehow, you'll get out of this public place untouched.
It feels like you do. You hope, anyway.
Assume that the governor knows what's best when he says
"It is suggested that all citizens wear facemasks,
regardless if they're showing symptoms."
You put the peanut butter in the cupboard
and the paper plates on the counter.
You wash your hands for twenty seconds,
singing "Happy Birthday" twice, just like they said.
You touch your face because you assume you're clean.
Assuming your own risk, you pick up your phone and
in a rigid, robotic fashion, your search begins.
Assume you will see "out of stock" and "due to high demand,"
and assume that you will come up empty-handed, again.
You find her though,
a young girl who has made hundreds face masks to sell
on her online shop.
She asks you to select your pattern,
and as I scan my choices,
I imagine what would accompany my feverish face the best.
"Cats," I say to her through a series of clicks.
"Cats, and I think, I'll take the one with roses too."

I wouldn't mind it—
being the crayon color
that no one could name.

She sits on a wooden porch
in a chair that learned its comfortable shape
over decades of fireside conversation.
Her hair, still dark,
dark with a swatch of silvery gray
that drapes across the top of her head—
an honorary sash, life-bestowed.
Her cheeks, still round.
Her eyes, still green and wondering.
Her fingers, still short as they
light a long wooden pipe.
With a flick and a hiss, she *****
sweet tobacco smoke
and breathes out secrets
in languages spoken only by
those who understand the trees.
She sips bitter tea from a clay cup
and names each of the birds
that fly into her view.
She grows berries just for them
on vines that twist about
unsuspecting beams and rails.
A metaphor, she suspects.
She hums familiar melodies to herself
and cracks a wrinkled smile.
The world, as she knows it,
is only ever waiting to be enjoyed.

Does not include my
ovaries (unlike some girls).  
Please don't compare me.

Surrounded by watercolor sunsets,
I'm left with fifty slow miles
of untamed back road.

A half smile stays fixed
on my lips
and tilts slightly to the right.

Cracked pavement makes wheels
tremble in fine rhythms
and the heavy pulse
in my inner thighs
beats to match.

I'm on my way home
and in love
with the single notion
that I've been somewhere.

While I drive,
there's a gentle devil
who sits on my shoulder.
He croons satisfying tones
as he kisses my earlobe
and breathes this message
sensually down
the side of my neck:

“Mmm, baby,
consider this
your first lesson
in survival
on Pleasure Island.”

Too many layers.
Peel them off of me slowly.
Don’t worry. You’re next.