There is smoke in my lungs
And a spark in your eye.
I don’t know if you know
How wonderful it is to stare at the sky
And hold your hand in mine.
I exhale slowly and sigh,
So you turn to me, quiet,
And ask me why?
Because I love you, my sweet.
I love you with a love that will not die.

Sitting with you is
The best part of my day.

The smell of some
****** light blue American Spirit
Hangs over us in a fog.

You’re talking philosophy
At me, and I’m leaning
Back against a tree
Blowing smoke at the sky.

You are everything that
I have been looking for.
I know you’re not just mine,
But sometimes I like
To pretend that you are.

There’s a siren wailing
And the man on TV
Keeps mentioning doomsday.
The newspaper headlines
All let us know it’s the end.
As the world crashes down
There is one comfort left.
I put on my favorite earrings,
The ones you bought me,
And you pull on your coat.
Taking you in my arms
Is all I have left,
So in this final evening,
This eleventh hour,
I bring you to dance in the streets,
To enjoy a final moment before
The show starts and the world ends.
I move in close to you,
And whisper my secrets in
Your ear, but my final secret
I press to your lips as
Our very essence is set aflame.

Something for the
insomniacs,
the maniacs,
and the lunatics.

Poetry about
you and me,
sleep and waking,
life and death.

This is to read
when the sun rises
and you're still awake,
or when the stars are
shrouded in clouds.

This is for all of you
who have yielded
your sanity to the moon
and felt the meaning of
lunacy in your bones.

I dedicate this collection of
oddities to all of you oddities,
may you read it and sleep.

There's a lot about you I
like and there's a lot about
me I don't like. Some nights
I can barely breathe because
I don't think I deserve the
air but you come along
and suddenly it doesn't
feel like a chore to inhale.
Breathing becomes as
natural as loving you.

Maybe there's something
kind of magic about lights
on the water and sitting with
someone you care about,
or maybe I'm a hopeless
romantic, desperate to make
every situation better.
Either way, I like being here
with you, my friend.

As we know it, and I feel fine"
Because I have you in the
Front seat next to me,
And the moon is the size of
A ferris wheel when it's
Not covered by clouds,
And we're both not looking
At each other but there's
An unspoken way I know you care.

Memories hurt like
pressing a bruise.
They ache
and you want to tear
it out and away but
it's stuck to your flesh.

Memories are like
cigarette smoke,
you lay awake craving
them but when you give
in it stings and you can't
quite breathe anymore.

Memories are like black
coffee half burnt in
the ***.
Bitter and scalding,
painful to taste and
swallow.

Memories choke you
out with the force
of your own sobs,
gasping for air and
begging for mercy.

Memories are
living and potent,
reminders of our
humanity and our pain.

there are dozens of them,
thin, white lines
running
up, down, and sideways
across my legs.

they cross my thighs,
stretch to my hips.
they form bumps,
and small valleys.

scar tissue is not pretty,
no matter what you call it.

i would like to
see my childhood self again,
careless and free.

i want
my childhood
back.

i am
cold toes and ripped jeans,
scalding tea and fake smiles,
too dangerous to love.

i am
worse than you think,
faded scars on hips and wrists,
ragged combat boots held together by duct tape.

i am
coffee breath in the morning,
chattering teeth in the afternoon,
a headache in the evening.

i am
in love with being in love,
too afraid to live properly,
draped in the color black.

i am
more than I can handle,
shining brighter than I thought,
waiting for the world to end.

i am
twisted, broken, and desperate,
shattered glass on a tile floor,
blood stains on old sheets.

i am
an art form gone awry,
burnt and discarded matches,
broken hearted and hopeful.


i am
glassy and bloodshot eyes,
shaking hands,
***** coffee mugs sitting in the sink.

i am
a skipping CD,
a restless night’s sleep,
shadows under eyes that look more like bruises.

i am
wholly and entirely me,
wrapped in flannel and denim and crystals,
something no one else can replicate.

i want to write about him.
to capture his essence between pages,
like a flower plucked and left to dry.

the way his pink lips bowed,
the soft curve of his neck,
the muscled ***** of his shoulders,
the valley of his lower back.

i want to preserve his image,
his brown hair,
smooth, tan skin,
and shining eyes.

i want to press the feather-light caresses,
hold them between the paper pages
of some long forgotten book.
i want to remember every second,
every tiny instant,
of our love.

do you know what it's like?

to take a blade to your hips
and let denial fall willingly off your lips?

do you know what it's like?

to be broken before you had the chance to bend
and to desperately search for a way to make things end?

do you know what it's like?

to lie awake at night and cry
and have nothing get better despite how hard you try?

do you know what it's like?

to feel battered, weak, and small,
and have every thought turn in on itself like a mirrored hall?

do you know what it's like?
i hope you don't.

broken girl, pick yourself up.
wipe those tears off your chin,
and spit into the dust.

dig in your heels,
give ‘em that glare
you know works so well.

plant your feet,
refuse to move for anyone in your way.
you aren’t to be messed with.

broken girl, show ‘em what you’re made of-
blood, sweat, and tears,
real and solid.

you’re gonna be here for centuries
with an attitude like that,
so gear up, girl, get going.

you ain’t so broken now,
bared teeth and clenched fists,
you’re swinging for those who hurt you.

don’t raise a hand to the helpless, girl,
extend one instead,
you were there once.

lift yourself up high,
but don’t forget your roots,
you’ve got more power than you think.

did i ever tell you
about the way your hair
shines in the sun?

did i ever tell you
about the way your eyes
sparkle with mischief?

i don’t believe i have.

allow me to,
grant me this one favor,
my only request from you.

let me tell you about
the way you smile,
nothing could make me happier.

let me tell you about
the decadence of your voice,
nothing could bring me more joy.

let me tell you about
your passion for what you love,
nothing could be more exciting.

have you had your fill?

eaten and drank enough words
that you might sink
to the bottom of a river and settle there?

have you enjoyed yourself yet?

have you found happiness?

have you felt contentedness in the warmth of your chest?

stay at the bottom of the river,
lover,
where your hair is a dull gleam,
your eyes glassy and vacant.

stay sunken and stuffed,
your smile vacuous,
your words unspoken,
your passion swallowed down.

are you worried yet?

can you still move?
still breathe?

are you certain of yourself,
of your surroundings?

where are you?

are you still alive, even?

is your heartbeat strong as it was moments ago?

this is no love poem,
this is a ****** poem.

this is where i drown you,
fill your lungs with your arrogance
the same way i filled your ego with words.

this is where i cross the line,
from love to hate,
fire to ice.

i am your lover,
am i?

the darkened hallway in which i sit
is hardly a place for you.

the light lives in the cracks under a door,
and in the faded flicker of a burnt out bulb.
the light here is not enough for you,
you would wither slowly.

the smiles in this hallway are cracked,
broken grins stretching too wide.
these mouths would swallow you whole,
eat your joy and take it for their own.

the mirrors will distort your reflection,
and you will see your face peering back at you,
murmuring your worst fears, darkest desires
calling you to step into the glass.

this darkened hallway in which i sit
is hardly a place for you.

i will not let this world push me down,
into oblivion,
into quiet submission.

no,
i will rear my head,
i will bite back,
i will roar at those who attempt to silence me.

i am fire and rage,
fighting for what i know is right,
and i will not let the people of this world
force me to swallow my words,
or silence my thunder.

i am strong,
the force of nature that the world needs
to fight for those who cannot fight.
i will not let this world push me down,
nor any others
for any longer.

oh, sinning girl,
bless me in your image,
cup my face in your hands,
pierce my soul with your eyes.

oh, sinning girl,
you put a spell on me,
took me into your charm,
wicked and sly.

oh, sinning girl,
i’m on my knees for you,
you’re holy to me,
more divine than heaven itself.

oh, sinning girl,
place your hands on mine,
they say palm to palm is a holy kiss,
and kissing you can’t be a sin.

oh, sinning girl,
you’re from the house of the rising sun,
deep down in New Orleans,
but girl you’re just a sunrise to me.

oh, sinning girl,
they’re after your head,
you aren’t holy to them,
you’re made of fire and brimstone.

oh, sinning girl,
touch me one last time,
let me remember your holiness,
oh, sinning girl.

we are all waiting for something,
a plane to land,
a response to be sent,
a love to be requited.

waiting is the hardest part
of living in this world.

patience,
a virtue seldom valued,
is not a value i hold near.

impatience runs within me,
why not now?
i ask petulantly
as if the stars should hang in the sky
because i no longer want to wait for nightfall.

a stolen kiss,
here and there,
but stolen kisses can never be mine.

it’s not like i thought you were mine,
but a girl can wish.
oh, i can wish.

is it distance or wishing
that makes the heart grow fonder?
the two of us could figure it out,
i’m sure.

this shouldn't happen,
so you say,
between kisses on my
neck and mouth.

stolen kisses are what we thrive on,
pressed to wet mouths,
too early in the morning.

it’s not good,
you and i and our stolen kisses,
but we steal them anyway.

did i tell you-
i can hear the sea calling your name?
it wails all night,
begging for you to come back.
you cannot.
you are mine now,
i have taken you back,
dragged you out of the watery depths,
your hands matching the temperature of the sea.
i can hear the sea
begging for you,
turning your skin
as green as it’s waves,
but i will not relinquish you.
i have taken you back from the depths,
and death will not stop me.

you think the heads
hung on your wall
define you,
prove your masculine worth.

to me,
they are a warning
to stay far away.

women and animals
are not yours.

we are not yours,
we are not trophies for your wall,
we are not notches for your bedpost,
we are not prizes to be won.

yet you would treat us as such,
equate me and my sisters
with the lion in the savannah,
and reduce us to what you can take.

you would hang us on your wall,
furs and maidenheads,
displaying us as symbols of your prowess.

we do not exist to stroke your ego,
to let you show off to the others,
to have you carry us as the mantle on your shoulders,
the crown upon your head.

our blood,
the lioness and mine,
is on your hands and your walls,
and we will make you regret it.