summer quietly creaks open the back door
slips from beneath your skin records shattering
as you stare down from the attic, questioning
everything. it's gone before you can remember
what warmth even is
sadness warps
an old yellow novel you used to love
holding it close as it twists and moans
rip the best chapter out because
it belongs to you

ill write about everything you hate
about yourself and make it sound like
the most beautiful ******* thing.

disembodied:
flowers with thorns
sensitive skin
i don't cut myself
these are from
holding everything

do i even exist?
i hope not
my forehead is cold
i'm shaking
car window down
the sun looks so pretty
as it rises
traffic, drifting,
i think i'm falling
asleep

at the wheel

my days fill up
like balloons
with forced breath

seeing light
shine through the messed up blinds
like a projector playing a movie across my skin
about something slightly nostalgic
but very far away

when i leave my house
my skeleton is magnetic
i feel nothing
but the push and the pull
the lack of choice
and a deep-cutting desire
to once again
have the world
and my body
belong to me

oh hips, i'd gather all them,
(your spine i deserve).
i'd much rather call them
a coastline than a curve.

my teeth
sink into
instant coffee
cautiously; this will
never be the same
unless you are here.

            i might pick up
            a cigarette and
            a bible in the same
            breath,
            i still love you
                 all the same.

being alone has
taught me that
i miss you even
when i don't,
i want everything to feel
                                        close again.

A mess of thighs and hair and love
We ******
For the same reason
That kids throw rocks at the sea

did i pull away or did you?
what i wouldn't do
for one more taste
of that wet embrace.

we find a balance
in the absence.


we find a balance
in the absence.

"to love is
to hurt,"
you whisper,
eyes red and
bones hollow;

ah,
whispers a
voice,
*but to hurt is
to be alive

Sticky sweet memories
cling to the side
of my mason jar mind

Like blackberry jam.

Berries plucked
and kisses stolen
beneath a sultry summer sky.

Nothing but sweat and
white teeth and
purple stained finger tips.

But now it's cold--
too cold
for blackberries.

I spread what's left
of the jam
on some dry toast

And savor the taste.