I will always be too much for some people.
I will always be too emotional.
Too affectionate.
Too clingy.
Too needy.

I will always not be enough for some people.
I don't emote enough.
I don't display enough affection.
I don't touch enough.
I don't articulate enough.

I will always be too much.
Too damaged.
Too guarded.
Too cold.
Too paranoid.

I will always be too much.
Too strong.
Too opinionated.
Too passionate.
Too forgiving.

I will always be too much for some people,
But I'd like to think that maybe
For you,
I am just enough.

Graceless
You are graceless
She is wingless, like you
Only yours were honorary
Yours she gave to you, so generous
Hers you tore from her
Shoulder blades,
Pulled a feather from every pore
A petal every time
You asked whether or not
She had been in love with you

She was
And she wishes
You were missing the same pieces
That were taken from her
But at the same time
She couldn't hurt a fly
Not on purpose
Nor without consideration
Nor without consequence



Because she knows better than to do what you did.

You cut her
Yet your own blood
Doesn't run with guilt.

You're Graceless
Selfish

Yet not as Graceless
As the young woman
Whom you laid on a metal slab,
Dissected,
And sewed back together
With romantic detachment

You claimed her,
You cut her,
You maimed her,

Don't trivialize her anger
She deserves to feel something again
Let her fly,
Let her fly
*******,

She doesn't  want her family to watch her die

Bitterness--
Like dried, expired chocolate--
Is duller than listening to
Him talk about politics;
Waiting for it to rain
Then watching the sun come out
And hour later;
Craving a new cup of coffee
Only to walk two miles
To the stores to buy new creamer,
And coming home to find the mug
Cold as a ten year old corpse,
And the power is out
So I can’t heat it up
In the microwave.

I go out again,
To Starbucks or to Caribou,
Whoever is more likely
To ***** up my elaborate order
(The former);
I ignore the barista’s niceties,
Disappointed by my own
Social skills;
I chug,
Twenty minutes later
I’m still tired.

More discouraging
Are the shrill voices of my
Authorities;
Angry stirred with
High expectations or, sometimes,
Just angry.
Teaching me their definition
Of quick succession
And looking before leaping;
Yelling at me too…
Smile;
Calling for some…
Appreciation;
Yearning for some
Uncalled for
Domestication.

My head beats its drum,
Because every civil war
Needs a drummer boy
And the battle starts
With a rhythm.

The bully's in 7th grade were right, I'm too fat to be beautiful, too ugly to be loved, but I'm perfectly fit for writing and that has to be enough.

The scales, black and silver. Hidden under bathroom sinks, coaxed out by desperation and longing for change. It breathes cold fire and hums beneath my nervous finger tips. Protecting its treasure, my self confidence. I ride on its back, with shakey legs, covering my tear stained face afraid of heights and steep numbers.

I let it drag its deep claws into my wrists, down my thighs. Letting is squeeze the word ugly from my lips.

This place as lost it's vibe, mediocre poets at best. Don't tell me what I want to hear, rip the words out from my chest. I'm still sore from your absence.

I reverted back to self doubt, to a couple steps before the starting line. The jammed coffee maker a synonym for my suicide. The the open face rejection of a boy telling you, "you're not good enough" . Like a drink without a holder, I am prone to spilling over. And here I am, mopping up my insides.

I didn't see her for three days

then she was back
but her color was not

where her hair parted
was starkly arid
on her forehead
wasn't the dot of red
and her saree was bleached white

yet nothing was amiss
she intently scaled the fishes
cut them neatly into pieces
though a piece of her went missing

She knows well
for no price
can she stop the sale.

One hundred and thirteen days since my last sip.
And it only took me one day to finally jump ship.
No matter how long I'm sober, nor how much I drink.
Will ever allow me the clarity to see the way that you think.
So here's to relapse, and the misery inbound.
Because girl I'll never stop you from runnin' around.

She was here
Again last night,
She shows up
In my dreams;
She slipped her arm
In mine, held tight,
And called me
By my name.
I can't say for sure,
You know what dreams are like,
But I felt her here,
As if awake,
How I love the night.

The confidence that I gave her
abolished that insidious
shroud of self doubt
she wore about her shoulders,
but now it seems
that when she believes
in herself
I don that cold shroud
and hide in it's folds
of insecurity.

The light I held her in
cast me in the shadow
of her darkness,
and now the brightness
that she shines with
just tends to hurt my eyes
and burn my skin.

I'm happy this way,
cold and afraid,
because though I may lose her,
I know this to be true,
it'll be her turn to find someone
that is lost in the darkness
and make them shine brightly too.

Green, purple, black and blue
I'll press on your bruise
and come into you
as you squirm and twirl
and collide your insides
onto my ridged body
in a ****** worthy
of feature-length films.

Fingers and palms are your whole world
around your throat and crushing into you
between our rhythmic pulsing
and the ebb and flow of your
breath that I have in my control,
we create meaning and feed
on all of this beautiful life.

As I paint you white
and pant and fight
with myself,
I can't help
but love you.