When you speak, the listener understands you. When you write, the reader understands themselves.

A tender touch down your spine,
Unfold your delicate rib cage,
The ink that is your blood,
The stories you hold
Pulsing beneath the title that is your skin.

you will find me
in places that we've never been
for reasons we don't understand.

I crossed my bed to find you
and found the Atlantic Ocean instead

There is a bird that knows my name
each day sitting at my window
it talks to me
and I don't know what it is saying
but I know it knows my name
so I listen.
I don't move closer to the window
with open shutters
and the bird calling my name--
a little softer than before.

"you can't just
touch my soul
and leave"

My hands on fire
—flaming wings
in a paper heaven
—burning quills
of some hell raven


I'm writing words
turning into ashes


My smoking corpse
is all remains
burned to bones
with no remorse