Never aspired to be
some kind of untouched, blank wall—
plain, pale, and ******.

I think of artists’
hands on a living canvas—
and I get giddy.

These naked inches
hand-painted in poetry
by steady fingers.

Play me some Otis
as he sinks that ink for keeps.
Suddenly, I'm art.

Electric fingers
run themselves
over and through
patches of frayed soul.
To wake and make
her breathe again,
they pull and dig,
intending to heal,
laboring on a level
never made known
to darkness;
never touched
by light.

Music is thick,
syrupy sweet and
heavily cloaks all
of the hazy bits of
undecided sunrise and
smeared headlights
that I blink into
oncoming clarity.
Last night looming—
an ominous rain cloud
born to wash out
all of today’s quick wit and
coveted common sense.
Last night, so curious,
while I slowed time by
refusing my dreams;
when I quieted my mind
and didn’t have to work
quite so hard
at keeping myself warm.

So ice cleats look weird?
I bet they look **** ****
right after you slip.

I love you, but not in the way that poets mention.
It’s a love with mostly beautiful parts—
those which beautiful words
could do their best to validate and describe.

But there are other parts,
like
the hot, jealous breath on my neck,
heavy and hanging over me—
a howling black cloud
patiently waiting to
rip,
pour,
warp,
and
ruin.

Other parts,
like
the craggy barbed wire ribs you wear—
the ones I take in when I wrap myself around you.
Who these are meant to protect
remains unclear.

Other parts,
like
the guilt I foster when we touch
while you remind me in a soft whisper
that you’re not mine to keep.
I face the bare wall and hesitate to accept
that to touch is simply to use,
and to use is so far from to love.

I love you, just not in the way that poets mention—
in that rigid crack between the brick and mortar—
in a narrow place where even the loudest secrets dare not echo.
I love you in that stretch of light between heel and shadow—
in the space that implies
but does not define
connection.

I love you, but not in a way that poets mention.
I love you in the silent incomplete—
the only way you’ll allow.

I love you alone.

Instinct tells us to
grip something
when the ride gets rough.
Then, lights flicker
and a moment becomes
fight or flight.
Our guts wrench,
our souls double down,
and we listen for it.
Music has got to be proof
that this isn’t our last stop.
We’re all on this train
until we get off.
Might as well get caught
dancing this journey
to a beautiful halt.

It can't be helped—
I'm groomed to recognize rhythms
to slink and roll to synthetic beats,
to melt and form to that tight snare,
and find pure bliss in a groove.

So pay no mind
as I give my hips free reign.
This music makes a satisfying breeze,
and my freak flag needs to fly.

I’d imagine my guardian angel has put up with a lot of ****— car accidents, nights of overindulgence at the bar, trespassing to “not-so-skinny” skinny dip in gorges tucked away deeply between mountains. I’d imagine she’s shaken her head at me more times than she’s offered me a high five. I’d imagine I make her use less-than-flowery four letter language when I speak, loudly, without thinking first. I’d imagine she cringes when I forget to reapply sunscreen and fall asleep on the beach for three hours. I’d imagine she often questions why she got stuck with a soul that just can’t seem to settle and fit into a set groove.

I’d imagine she’s annoyed by the fact that I’m not a wholly religious person. I ask too many questions to let well enough alone. I’d imagine that she nearly has a heart attack when she taps into my thoughts when we pass a hoard of sweaty, young and rugged road construction workers on the highway. I’d imagine she’s over the moon that she’s not my mother, and that she definitely throws out some extra Hail Marys when I wake up thirty minutes late for work and somehow think I still have time to stop and get an iced chai latte.

I’d imagine that my guardian angel has put up with a lot of ****, but nothing quite so challenging as the loss of a soul I loved more than any other on this planet. I’d imagine she’d rather see me with a no-good, devilish smirk on my lips than these unpredictable streams of tears down my cheeks. I’d imagine she’d hush the thousands of questions circulating inside my head that just can’t be answered. I’d also imagine that she’d agree—the inside of my brain sounds a lot like some frat boy got really drunk, made some awful beats, and proclaimed himself the master of Fruity Loops. I’d imagine she, too, would like it to cease immediately, because it’s never, ever going to sound like something that makes sense.

I’d imagine that she’s mapped out all of the cracks this has left in my heart, navigated them, and is ready and waiting with the super glue and duct tape to make me feel whole again. I’d imagine that my pain is as much her charge as my happiness, and that she tries to deflect and channel it into better things whenever she’s able.

I’d imagine my guardian angel has now gained a great friend who can share in her grief of protecting me. Someone who also has shaken his head at me countless times for a lot of the same aforementioned antics, someone who was a little too tall to offer me high-fives but offered me the low ones with a side of a hug instead. Someone who always told me to calm down before I spoke—who told me to stop overthinking things until they didn’t make sense. Someone who always reminded me to reapply my sunscreen—who always ultimately tried to deflect my pain too.

I’d imagine my guardian angels expect me to continue to keep them on their toes. I'd imagine I don’t plan to disappoint either of them in the slightest.

*Rest easy. I'll be seeing you.

Frankly, I don’t give a ****
if you weren't a spiritual guy,
because I can’t shake it—
I see your smile
in the smear of each sunset
and your side eye in the stars that follow.
I hear your ‘hello’
in every forgiving breeze
and your infectious laughter
in each clap of thunder.
In these small moments,
I feel whole for just a second,
and my heart swells at the thought
that you’re now so much bigger
than anything I can possibly
clasp my little t-rex arms around.
But, see,  I’m grateful
that I get to find you
from scratch
every single day—
that I can wrap myself
in all the parts of you
that I committed to memory—
that you, alone, gave me a chance
to fall in love
with the change of the seasons
all over again.

hashtagsarepointless
#imissthespacebarsomuch                                            
#trendthisyouassholes

One more dusty rotation
around this earth,
following deep grooves with stories
that suggest
this ain’t my first rodeo.
I can’t manage to keep hold of
a single thing they boast of worth,
but I have a finger on my awareness,
and that’s a start.
Meanwhile, the universe simmers
and bubbles, unsteady—
her shaky fuse lit and ready to go.
Restlessness and an urgency
felt with every passing second,
but she hasn't told me why.
And when I squint for a solution,
all I make out are
muted colors and shapes with no edges.
Abstract suggestion of a journey I know
I was born to grab by the lapels—
to collect lessons from grooves
and their dust
and gut feelings—
to allow them to transform
my armfuls of nowheres
to somewheres.
So, I tighten the grip of my thighs
on this carousel horse of mine,
careful not to let the circles
ride *me.

I refuse to let life fade my colors.
Every experience, event,
each of the souls I’ve met,
all of those feelings felt,
dye me a bit deeper—
shades and tints a bit richer.
And when I leave this world,
you’ll find traces of me
in every place you look.
Footmarks so vibrant,
even rainbows will
have something to pray for
after the storm.

A truth derived
out of the last armful of days:
“the heart just don’t quit.”
Despite the whole of it,
I stop dreaming each morning
to the beat of my own—
a soft, rhythmic reminder
that I’m still here;
still here
with breath to waste
if I wish.

In this state of mind,
I swallow my pride like I’m born to do it.
**** it back and let its bitter bite
coat my tongue and slide down
sides of my pretty pale throat,
caressing each of the guilty lumps
on its way to the below.

When it’s been stomached,
I thread my golden needle
on the first try.
I press my lips together
to pierce and sew them shut.
Crisscrossing over, under,
around, and through.
The tinny blood tastes
much less bitter than my pride.
I pull tight, ending the job
with its little uniform knots.

But certainty is key.
So I break each and every finger
on my small, able hands.
Once the most amazing
and interesting of instruments,
now hang crooked and limp;
however, as I watch them bruise and swell,
a deep pink to a fresh blue-violet,
I am wholly relieved.

None will be spoken,
None will be written.
Here, safe in my man-made silence.

Folded between waves,
she soaked up all of the magic
the salt air had to offer—
a quiet, little old soul,
turned riotously blissful
in the presence of the great Atlantic.
I saw this with my own eyes and smiled.
This love was in our blood,
passed down from our mothers,
unspoken but shared—
an immutable joy that dripped
from the ends of our hair,
mimicked our laugher
in these deep edges of blue,
and echoed in the fizz
of the crashing surf.
I saw this with my own eyes and smiled.
Folded between waves,
something in me settled especially for her:
No matter how unclear life may become,
she, too, would find happiness
as long as she could find her way
back to this shore.

How to give a ****?
******* plays no part in it.
It begins with love.

mainly for its cold
and my aching curves, due to
nights spent keeping warm.

Honestly, my three favorites are
Puerto Rico, Nevada, and Texas.
I follow you through your souvenirs,
stuck fast to my refrigerator door—
mementos of places I’ve never been.
You always did that,
traveled without much warning.
I envied your ability
to cut loose from all those undesired ties
and just fly far away to somewhere else.
Merciless adventure that begged to be tasted.
I missed you when you left,
more than most things, but
you’d always come back
with a little something
to decorate my modern-day ice box.
“That’s your thing,” you’d tell me,
handing me the magnetized treasures.
You'd help me pick out a spot
for each of them, and
it made me feel a bit better
for being so god ****** unworldly.
They’re all there, you know,
varying shapes and colors,
with eyesore typography
spelling out awful puns that I love.
Somehow, they fit together
and make a sort of perfect sense
that I can’t explain.
My three favorites are still
Puerto Rico, Nevada, and Texas—
pieces of your completed journey
radiating childlike wonder, fervent hope,
and plenty of open-ended questions.
Completed, with the exception
of a single, naked, white space
that I will wait my lifetime to fill,
because, like you said,
that’s my “thing,"
and I'll keep it as such,
I'll keep you as such,
until my sand runs out too.

There is a green light,
refusing to take shape.
He speaks to me in laughs
and leaves messages in the sunsets.
He nods, as if there is something
he knows that I'll never know.
And he laughs
and laughs
and laughs.
Without a word, it is understood
that I’m the fawn,
slipping on the ice with tangled legs,
and he watches with a silent smile—
a smile I can’t see, but I feel.
the same smile stitched on
with thread spun by
the infinite secrets of the universe.
A smile that tells me
a fawn finds her footing
before night falls.

I know exactly what this looks like.
Cold, grey, and understated.
It's the bruised piece of fruit at the bottom of the crate;
the one everyone sees but won't commit to buying.
He thinks he won't buy it either,
but when she drops him,
the loneliness consumes, it envelopes,  
and the grasping begins.
He grabs... anything.
He grabs the bruised fruit.
He sinks his teeth into its soft flesh;
juices sweet;
texture pleasing.
He forgets the superficial imperfections.
After he's enjoyed it down to its bare core,
it knows.
This was only temporary.
He won't replant the seeds to watch it grow.
He won't thank it for the nourishment
that got him by.
He will drop it, without regard,
as he admires
the polished pieces placed at the top of the crate.
When he's hungry, he'll choose, carefully, this time,
without letting on he knows exactly what this looks like.
Seeds by a trashcan;
unfulfilled potential strewn across the floor;
a rotting purpose.

******* may love it,
but I'd rather not know when
I'm being ignored.

America, when will you step outside of yourself?
When will you realize that one-size does not fit all?
I’d say we’ve outgrown our government,
but freedom of speech is not freedom of consequence.
America, the air is too thin up in your tall towers.
Is it time to dismantle?
I’d be happy living in rubble if everyone felt valued.
America, what do I tell your children
when they ask why we’re going to war?
They will ask, as will the fear in their eyes.
America, I have another question,
have you ever been grabbed by the *****?
America, do you think the world
will be able to see past your new orange glow?
Will they see your citizens pining for progress?
Will they laugh or will they cower
at the sight of us tearing each other apart?
America, you are no longer a melting ***.
You are a child holding a sectioned dinner plate,
and the thought of trying something new
fills you with abhorrence.
America, the world is naturally colorful.
The world might see this, but you do not.
America, a locked door and a loaded gun won’t keep
a nuclear missile from stopping by to visit.
You must know that.
America, how will you end?
Will I be there to watch?

America, are you listening?

Never thought I'd have
such an addict's persona.
Never say never.

When you have a second,
I can show you what happens
after you take something meant
to be so deliciously singular
and trick it into becoming
part of a collection.

Just let me see if I can
fit under this microscope.
I'm sure the findings
will be worth writing down.

I can feel it down to my knees.
It terrifies me to fidgets.  
Not like that serial-killer-
chasing-my-pure-as-the-wind-driven-snow-***-
aroun­d-some-secluded-farmhouse-
in-the-middle-of-the-night-
when-I-hav­e-the-least-possible-chance-of-survival
kind of “terrify.”

I compare this kind of “terrify” to
the first time I set eyes on the Atlantic.
A hushed minute—
my eyes straining to see the end
of that blue on blue horizon.
And I’m
so filled with wonderment
at the thought of such a treacherous beauty—
I think, without question,
the idea of it all will surely swallow me whole.

Truth is
I'd jump right down that throat
without a single hesitation
if I knew the feeling would stick.
Truth is
I stay put—
because I know
that just because you plant a seed
doesn't mean it wants to grow.

Twenty-eight has toes
butted up against a pitch black promise.
It tastes like mint tea and sucralose,
semi-sweet wine, and runny egg yolks.
It's colonies of bats, strung still in a cave,
bursting into flight whenever provoked.
Twenty-eight has a thousand eyes
looking in every direction
and nimble fingers holding a pocket watch
ticking only in double time.
It understands death
but still can't help but take its days for granted.
Twenty-eight pays rent
but would rather sleep on the beach tonight.
It practices the alchemy that can change
base metal regrets into precious gold vision.
It beats and breathes on the assumption
that it has tomorrows to spend.
Twenty-eight walks a tightrope woven
with expectations and balances only
by the weight of its dreams.
It trudges through thickets and thorns
if only to tell the stories behind its scars.
Terrifyingly beautiful,
that twenty-eight.

Once upon a time, a little girl found a seed.
She wasn’t looking for a seed,
but she found one anyway.
She held it in the palm of her hand
and wondered and wondered.
She planted it in rich, black soil.
For weeks she watered the soil,
gave it sunlight,
and even sang to it.
It sprouted and grew into a beautiful flower,
with petals of colors man
hadn’t even invented names for yet.
The girl loved the flower,
and the flower loved her back.
They were happy.
But between smiles and blooms,
the girl and the flower knew
that this could not possibly last forever.
“Flower, I know no matter how much I care for you,
some day you will die.”
The flower nodded and when he did,
some of his brilliant petals fell to the soil.
The girl gently pocketed them to keep.
As time went on, the flower began to wilt;
his colors faded;
his roots shriveled with the rest of him;
but the girl still continued to care for him.
When the day came, there was not a speck of color
left in his stem and petals,
and the girl knew he had gone.
She ran her fingers over his soil
only to discover a pile of seeds
that had fallen from his dying center.
She collected them, tilled a patch of land
outside of her window
and planted each of them
with the same love and care as before.
They bloomed bright with petals of colors
man hadn’t even invented names for yet.
The girl loved her flowers
and was happy to share their beauty
with the world passing by.
This, she believed,
was how her flower knew it was to be
all along.

Thought maybe I'd stop
writing haiku for awhile.
April Fools, *******.

When you think of me
you picture a woman with arms full of
every kind of rope you can imagine.
Thick rope braided with sisal, polypropylene,
heavy steel, and other metal alloys.
Skinny rope made of nylon—the slippery kind
made to slink through the nooks and crannies.

You picture my fingers to be capable of
perfecting knots of every kind,
stubby and restless as they are.
You picture me in cowgirl boots,
a Stetson tipped, shadowing my gaze,
crafting professional lassos,
swinging them high and proud, and
looking you directly in the eye.

But it was never my intention
to tie you down.
To be free is a treacherous privilege,
one I always thought you deserved.

So, I want you to picture me
not with rope, but instead
with a  breathtaking pair of strong wings,
delicately coated in the softest ivory feathers.
I want you to watch as I stretch them out
and take off gracefully from the pavement.
And when I scoop you up in my ropeless arms,
we’ll careen, smooth and effortless,
through purple and orange evening skies.

Think of the wings next time, please,
because I only ever wanted
to help you fly.

Maybe what I need
is to stay awake long enough
to watch the sunset again.
But don't pity me, please.
I'm just "lonely;"
It's the teacher I can always look up to.
It thickens the skin and deepens the thoughts.
It reminds me why I enjoy the sound
of a stranger's laugh,
and presses me to admit that
I miss being touched.
Lonely looks a lot like a harvested cotton field,
and if you inhale the air as you drive by,
you'd know exactly how to describe
the smell of neglect.
Lonely proclaims that something empty
is just as beautiful, because you can see through it;
it can only tell the truth.
Maybe what I need
is to stay awake long enough
to watch the sunset again;
to learn that its lonely goodnight
is the most beautiful painting
the whole world gets to witness.

Brick building my wall,
Remove one, you put it back.
Unprosperous me.

Young enough to know
that what they’ll have me
believe of this world
is a shadowy truth at best.
The lesson
in each dancing darkness
on my wall is love, &
we’re nothing but silhouettes
until the lights come on.

Five,
small,
fingerprinted bruises
track my inner thigh.

I study them.
Lightly trace each shape
with my tiny fingers.

It wasn't your intention, I’m sure—
to put them there.
& yet
I dig that you left me with something
to remember you by.

Five,
little,
light purple souvenirs
to remind me that intimacy
doesn't always mean to discourage.

I’ll fondly watch them slow-fade
bright violet to a tawny nothing.

& meanwhile

I’ll think of something clever—
some sly suggestion
to get you to remind me
one more time.

When I bite my lip,
it signals that I wanna              
*bowchickawowwow.

A brand new record.
Bright, self-renewed novelty.
Spin you paper thin.

He can’t dull the ache;
the sting which follows his phrase
“It’s not you, it’s me.”

I'm not ashamed to find solace
in the melancholy.
I'd be willing to bet
that sadness
is a more prominent commonality
than smiling.

I can't find **** thing wrong with that.

There's a certain truth found in tears
that can't be derived from
a pair of curved lips.

A feather floating to the floor—
we hit the ground without
so much as a sound;

an unspoken beautiful blue.

I chose to draw you,
pressing hard, etched into paper—
so hard, my hand panged with aches
from the pressure.
Thick, bold lines which accented
those curious eyes
and long, wide strokes for
such smooth dark skin.
My representation so detailed,
I could almost feel you there
on the page.
Anyone could see—
there was love in those contours,
and hope in those highlights;
a pitied soul captured between hand and eye.
You were some version of the
******* Mona Lisa,
belonging to no one and everyone
all at once.
My furiously hated favorite,
hanging high and unfinished
for the world to see.

Understand me when I say
I had to press just as hard to erase
every inch of it.
With swollen knuckles
and blistered palms,
I didn’t blink until it was gone.
I refused to exhale until
there wasn’t anything left
except a few piles of dust
and a faint outline
of a subject that craved
but couldn’t stand
to be the object
of anyone’s admiration.

My mother tells me to be quiet.
Their home-brewed bigotry spills
over every edge of the bar--
every chair laced with straight, white, borrowed souls.
It spills and evaporates into the air--
unfresh, close, and thicker than before.
It sprouts decayed, bone-thin fingers that wrap around my throat.
My eyes water at the existence of it.
I go to gasp, to sing, to fill my lungs with anything else,
but she hushes me.
The rest of them-- they laugh and they sip.
It's bitter, it must be so bitter, but still, they sip.
Disgust lingering behind their teeth,
they've accepted that "this is just how things are."
This is just the way things have always been.
Unchanged, uneducated, unfit for survival,
they simply wait for whatever comes next, and they sip.
But here I sit, frantic, searching.  
There is no way out. The clouds descend,
and I realize
I was raised until I raised myself.
My mother, she taught me kindness,
she taught me patience; how to take turns,
but she did not teach me how to breathe... in this.
I
taught me how to speak the oxygen of tolerance
in the presence of green, noxious bigotry.
I
chose to live beside the oppression of race, gender, and ****** preference.
I
do not blame these white, straight, borrowed souls
for fearing what they choose not to understand.
But mother,
I
will no longer
be quiet.

I read a tidbit somewhere
that the average American will spend
a combined six months of their life
waiting at red lights.

After I processed this,
I consciously took a breath,
thanked my debatably lucky stars
that I turned out
nowhere near average,

*and gunned it.

Beyond a wooden door
there is a room
where we sit and grow
three years older together.
Many words spoken,
all ranks broken.
But a thing is always there—
staining whatever it touches.
Blackberry juices fingerprinting
all of my bright white hopes.
A thing molts in the stale air,
trailing feathers
that wean and wane
by the force of our hot breath;
always there in that room
where we denied tomorrow
every credit it begged for.
A thing we gave every other name
aside from its given.
A thing. A simple thing.

Come find me under tiger striped skies.
I’ll be the one sitting in front of a piano painted
a shade of faded limes with yellowed keys;
I’ll be the one who finally learned how to read notes
just as well as words.
Between compositions, I’ll wait for you.
I’ll run my fingers through these tall grasses
that live to freely dance against golden sunsets—
that never bury themselves behind unreachable horizons.
I’ll count each blade as a stroke of bewilderment
induced by a world who can’t accept that it is,
in fact, part of something so much bigger than itself.
Come find me, and I’ll teach you
how to speak the music that can be touched—
the music that dances on the tongue—
the music that will make you love again.

Inspiration becomes a **** suckled dry.
Inspiration was
all of this brilliance, exuded at once.
Awe-striking productions
left stone-washed and faded.
Inspiration became a crumpled up genius,
thrown to the side and
pressed into the cracked concrete
by busy pedestrians.
The same bodies
who only think to look
in one dismal direction.

In a matter of weeks,
Inspiration disintegrates and
leaves its creator with
no reward—
just ******* at some dry ****
that will never come to fruition.

Just ******* at some hopeless dissatisfaction.

Just *******.

So they say I’m a quiet one.

[Insert stint of dramatic silence here.]

It’s true.
This little mouth does not say much.
I chew on my opinions until they've lost their flavor.
I only own up to feelings if I get them down on paper.
What goes in, you see,
doesn't always need to come out.  

But just because my lips aren't constantly quivering with
quips and quotes
                       and qualms  
                                        and questions
about this world and everything in it,
doesn't mean
that these lips
can’t.

See, my psyche, she’s like an organic centrifuge—
Spinning so fast—she only appears to be standing still.
Spinning so fast—she doesn't have time
to make the connection from mind to mouth.
Spinning so fast—she’s silently grateful
that those hovering thought bubbles
can’t exist in reality.

Honestly, if they could,
she’d be royally ******.

I’d love to slow her down.
I’d love to turn her off.
But the power switch has been broken since 1988,
when all of the muddled beauty in this world
came barreling toward her all at once,
and the switch snapped.

She’s been turned on ever since.

[Insert stint of dramatic silence here.]

There’s just not enough time
for me to flesh out everything on my mind.
Oxygen is precious,
and they keep cutting down trees.
I won’t waste my breath—
I’m okay with keeping quiet.

I've found that
just because they can hear you
                                  *doesn't mean they’re listening.

The junk in my trunk?
Take some instruction, take aim,
teach me a lesson.

Cold air on the cheeks makes
for a natural blush.
This is a “healthy” look—
I read once from a banned book,
on mute,
in my parent’s bathroom
while everyone else was dreaming.
A “healthy” truth I’ve always
kept hidden under my tongue,
exposed only to moments
matured for keeping.
Licked lips, feel a sting and a dare
to think that I may never really
unlock that door.
That I might just continue
reading words, unapproved,
while other eyes stay shut.
Hiding healthy truths under my tongue
until I’m brave enough
to speak or
swallow.

Dosen't do any
good to add sugar if you're
not gonna stir it.

On my knees, I feel taller than I'll ever be.
Where his hands descend, my skin hums;
tones that are new; tones that pull;
tones that arch my spine; that spark an ache
and make me pine for more of this music.
I find that I know every word to this song,
even though I've never heard it before.

On my knees, I see farther than I ever have.
With a single lick of my lips,
I shake mountains; I stop time;
I **** the speech from a tongue
that may need to forget
what pains it to speak.

On my knees, I am the most I have ever been.
As he wipes the tear from my cheek,
with my smile, juxtaposed;
my skin still hums to words sung so clear.

On my knees, I find purpose.
On my knees, I am.

Thirty has curves the tongue
can’t navigate.
It echoes over and over in silent,
snow-covered gorges.
Thirty can hang if you let it take a nap first.
It won’t ever have money, but
it’s assumed it can pick up the check.
Thirty dances along every edge, and
doesn’t listen when it’s told
not to look down.
It smells like various cheap jar candles;
scents trailed with subtle “**** its”
and the smoke leaves notes
of pungent regret.
Thirty has an aftertaste of ****** innuendo and likes to whisper filth in a stranger’s ear
when no one can hear.
It doesn’t intend to put its happiness
in any hands but its own
(but does it anyway).
Thirty has guts but is too modest
to show off that armor.
It argues more freely and refuses
to lay at anyone’s feet.
Thirty knows the smell of snow
and relishes the scent
of fire’s smoke in its hair.
It can taste the deep kisses from yesterday
and never stops wondering
if they’ll come again.
Thirty finds a purpose in every day
but realizes that tomorrow
is not a promise made to anyone.
It feels unsettled and shortfallen,
but its cup runneth over.
It uses what it’s mama gave it
to stay warm at night.
Thirty is lonely with a full charge.
It finds poetry in palm lines and
pulls prose from the lies its told.
Thirty is the beginning you
never knew you needed.

So let’s begin.