i let the dark in.
                    i keep the window open and i stare into the trees.
i think about holding onto the edge of anything, i think about
my fingers and if they desire anything enough to
   keep their grip.
when i was younger i always thought that when
bad things happened
there would be witnesses.

who is watching my ache?
                   where are all of the eyes when i need them?
bad things happen quietly.
i keep looking for a beginning,
looking for an end,
                i can't find either. it's over.
in silence, i let all of the dark in.
                  i don't think i'll ever know how to let go.
                  i don't think i'll ever know what i'm holding onto.
bad things happen softly,
there is violence in
everything gentle and
poison in everything kind.

when i was younger i thought that everyone
died in a comfortable bed, surrounded by
their families.
i thought that when bad things happened,
there would be witnesses.

                    so where is everyone?
is it just me staring into this dark?
                       i witness my own tragedy.
      i do nothing but look at flesh and bone.
every animal is greedy, every
           body wants to get away with something.
ive spent too much time on my hands and knees.
if there is blood i don't know where it begins and
            where it ends.
i don't know if i can keep watching this grief.
    i just can't find a place to put it down.

they tell me
write me a love poem.
but i don't know who i'm writing from,
which version of me to sign it as,
authorized by the words
that make me seem believable.
a love poem about
eating even when you are full and
craving what you can't get your hands on.
a love poem about
two people pressed up against a tree,
how to get lost and
taking the easiest way out.
a love poem about
choking on
gripping fingers on
things i can't put into a love poem.
a love poem about
being afraid of getting caught, the
thrill of not knowing
what was
right and what was wrong.
a love poem about
what never comes. what is almost there.
how do you write about what it should've been without
sounding like an *******?
i could've written a better love story than this.
a love poem about
being stuck, about learning the curve of a body and
memorizing the sounds it makes, the
security of the first who can cover your heart with
their hands.
i can't address these poems.
signed, who?
the girl that i was molded into?
signed,

most sunny afternoons
i could swear i hear you
from behind me with a
hey, dewdrop or a
how you doin’ today, mim
and i think when i turn i’ll
see you walking up, tall
and gangly with a hat on
and your big smile. but it’s
always
just a breeze through my hair,
always
just the warmth of a spring
day on my face.
mom says it’ll get easier, says
we should all keep believing
that it’s you in those moments,
reaching out from some far off
intangible place in the only ways
you can.
he just wants to see you smile,
baby girl.
so i’m trying to reach back in
the ways i think you would if
this had been the other way
around and i hope you see me,
hope you can feel my love
floating up to wherever you
are. i hope you’re proud of me.

i’ve been sewing love into daisy chains
and i’m willing you to pull off each petal
ask them
and they will spell

/s
  h
     e

        l
       o
     v
   e
s

    m
       e\

in your palm
its a love letter written in botany
this is how i love you in spring
the same way the sun sends rays of gold
hurtling to the earth
to me
this is how i love you in spring
the same way the ocean hosts voyagers
you hold me
this is how i love you in spring
with each intake of air
with each new blossom, the bluebird that lives in my chest grows
and its funny
i never saw the beauty in the world
not like this
i never saw the earth glow
with such intensity
heard it hum
until i was able to watch flowers bloom
in the reflection cast in your eyes
that is a beauty i will never fully articulate
and
this
this is how i love you in spring

there is fire in a woman
in the words she utters, spilling like a river from lips that know pain and hurting and still curl into a smile that reaches further than her cheeks
there is fire in a woman
in her art
and ‘art washes away from the soul the dust of life’
and often i wonder what it would feel like
to make her body my canvas
let my lips write words on her skin that they could never speak
into the small spaces that lie in-between what i envision our twisted limbs would look like
there is fire in a woman
in her touch, at least i’ve dreamed it so
spent nights, half asleep envisioning what her fingertips would feel like against my skin
or twisted amongst my hair.
i dream of cups of coffee in the morning
that she’ll make me
only to go cold and sit half drank upon the table beside us
because they will never be as caffeinated as her
i’ve spent countless nights alone
with my palm placed heavy upon my chest
checking that the dull thud of my heart still exists
and i wonder what it would feel like
to have the fire that is a woman next to me
and i wonder if i wouldn’t need my palm to check i existed
i wonder if it would feel like dreaming
or if i’d finally feel alive.