I love you.
Countless poems cannot cut it.
‘I love you, I’m sorry, thank you.’
Not enough, not enough.
Please write a eulogy for me.

He has worked so hard
to put a roof above our heads
but it’s raining knives
and I’m bleeding seas

Roof or no roof,
death has its keys

She’s waiting for a failure
that would turn her life around;
waiting for her lightbulb to burst
so she can buy another one;
waiting for her ink to dry
so she can use another pen;
waiting for her eyes to tire
so she can cry again

Until then, she’ll walk on, asleep,
waiting for someone–
waiting for the failure
that would wake her up
and push her out of bed

I’ve got a bunch of little stars sitting in my desk drawer.
I used to leave them under my bed, but they leave holes on my sheets.
I miss the warmth of it, but I’m also scared to disintegrate.
How you managed to catch them, I have no idea.

I don’t want to hear your story either–
not with your bandaged hand.

I don’t know what it is with one-word titles that just get to me.
They reach in through my paper skin, and the light cardboard ribs, without ripping anything in half or bending something beyond comprehension.’ I’ve always found it a little bit intriguing the way I come out alive after each song and each poem, each work of art that should have shredded me through and through but didn’t.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that you’ve killed me so many times but I keep coming back to you.

I never travel but I'm never home
The sky is always alive,
but it never talks to me
the way it does with other children

I'm never the same person;
I always change my skin
the way one would change out of his clothes
I never get to love myself
long enough for that

I never get it right enough,
always with a tinge of wrong
and I get so exhausted
but I never talk myself out of it

I never travel but I'm never home
A stranger my house knows too well

babies suckle and babies cry,
I was a baby born to die