"Burn bright," you said. "Burn bright, for you are a star
and that is your destiny--that is what you were born to do."
I remember when the sun set that one fateful day we spent in paradise--
barely paradise, actually, for the light and the colours only scared me off--
and you held my hand, exhaled as the orange turned to grape to blackberry blankets,
muttered something that sounded a bit like "It's always meant to be like this."

I breathed, I breathed, I breathed. And now, I do the same.

Maybe I'm not born to burn bright. Maybe I was born to burn out.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Hold my hand and breathe.

You are not an old man searching for meaning beyond the horizon he has been given
Life is not and will never be generous and while I know that you are grateful
for little things like feeling your dog breathing, living her innocent little life
like a sigh or a scoff or a tiny half-bark "mommy, I need you to pet me right now"

How are you and your invented disease?
I hope they love you now

there’s always this vast space between the two of us—
a sort of unrest, lying comfortably on the coffee table.
and we try to ignore as much as we could, don’t we
don’t we try to mask everything in steam and whipped cream?
we talk about intimacy—you even stretch your fingers,
try to close the g a p: one part, air; two parts, ambiguity—
you cover my fingers with your palm but i can’t feel anything
and it used to frustrate me so much, but what can i do?
you and i are nothing against the moment, no matter how
serene our faces—how steady our breaths
we cannot win a fight that isn’t
even if you cover my hands with yours,
we’ll always be separate entities
never going beyond existence.

such a waste.

His advice was to burn it all down
so I wouldn’t have anything to go back to.
I would have done as he said,
had I not been scared of fire as it is.
I was afraid the flames would catch up to me,
grab onto my foot and lick up my legs,
swallow me up along with everything else.
He doesn’t know what I did,
no idea about what I didn’t do.
He'd understand anyway,
he’s been gone for five years now.

Couldn’t I just bury everything under snow,
so I could dig it up when I’ve come back?
"The snow would melt and so would your resolve,
but fire will wake you up and strengthen you,
keep your feet alive and moving.”
Who wants stagnancy? Who wants this?
I certainly have grown tired of it
but I’m too afraid to trade it for the comfort that
familiar chilly winds, light drizzle,
warm sunsets, starry night skies,
the smell of books in my library,
could provide me with.
He has always been stronger than me.
I can’t imagine how he must be now.

I live alone in a house in the fields
that I want to leave so badly
but I couldn’t seem to go
because of the huge crater that could be found
some distance from my home.
I could feel his words haunting me,
each time I pass by the emptiness of his lot.
They were still calling us children
when we stood in front of his burning house,
so bright amongst the dark sky painted behind it.
I felt like we were foreground objects
in his masterpiece about ashes.
At fifteen years old, he had rid himself of a home.
He thought it to be a burden—that which others
have always considered a luxury and privilege.

I miss the way his eyes would tear up as he stared at me unblinking.

Five years ago, I asked for him to come by
but he never accepted my offer.
Five years ago, I didn’t ask for him to stay
because I knew he never could.
I knew from the way he held me
as he whispered his parting words:
"Say hi when you come across me on your journey."
But that was five long years ago.
I’ve painted my walls red and orange,
fierce but hopefully not too angry.
I’m not angry. I’m peaceful.

I lived alone in a house in the fields
that I wanted to leave so badly
and now I’m leaving it,
but I’m not burning it down.
I’m leaving craters on each road instead.

You're gritting planets between your teeth,
crushing stars beneath your feet,
stripping galaxies of light,
you blackhole goddess you.
Have you ever heard a human's beating heart?
How do you see art?
How do you see the little mediocre things
us mortals have crafted for you?
Oh, kiss the Earth--the tiny Earth--
the speck with which you've moulded
every bead of your eternal necklace!
Kiss my life, kiss my being,
kiss me 'til I bleed enough
to write morality in songs!

She's got her eyes on her hand holding somebody else's
and she's got tiny planets stuck on her tongue

She doesn't understand how nice his hands felt covering hers,
how it reminded her of cotton fields
Funny how he has cotton candy smiles to match everything else about him

He makes her want to shed her skin twenty times
until she's clean enough to touch

But he also makes her want to grab a syringe
and inject some insulin into her bloodstream—
The whole thought of him frightened her to catatonic
and she knew her diabetic heart cannot handle such sweetness

She wants so much to let go of his hand
but he would smile and he would laugh and he would be
heavenly
and she would hate herself for ruining this

So she watches on at her hand holding somebody else's
and grit her teeth to the tiny planets exploding in her mouth

Sporadic. This girl
tells me she's going to live til she's
a hundred and thirty-three.
"I'm going to see history unfold
before my very eyes until
it's flat and spread enough,
it can't hold any more secrets."
Sporadic. This girl
tells me she'll find out history's secrets,
like they were more comparable
to her misplaced magic markers
than to the equality we so craved.
And the funny thing is that
she actually, truly, honestly believes that she can—
The other funny thing is that
I think I'm starting to believe her
and now, I've decided I'm telling her—
and she's walking towards me,
bright eyes and smiling lips
replaced by bitter lines and hues.
She's walking towards me—Sporadic.
This girl tells me that she's sorry
because she just got a call from her doctor—
Sporadic. This girl tells me
that she won't live past twenty-three.