growing up has been holding eulogies
for the people that i used to be
maybe that’s why i’ve been wearing black
since i was bruise kneed and fourteen
when i look in the mirror i don’t
recognize the girl i see but when she
stares back there’s a sort of comfort,
in her hunger pain frame...
grown out of the cracks of the city
like a **** on the sidewalk—
surviving despite being stepped on.

when i was older i knew who i was,
bright eyed and bushy tailed,
bruising my lungs with the songs i’ve sung
in sacrifice for this body is a temple but it
is far from sacred and i am the god to
whom it is devoted.

it’s raining salt like sunday nights,
self doubt and sea water,
everything i could be escapes from my
mouth faster than i can breathe—
i woke up tired seven years ago
and i haven’t recovered since.  

i wear myself like my second best skin,
we are the mask and the wearer
and every me is me
the past is just as infinite as the future
but i’ve been holding eulogies since i was fourteen
and mourning is always harder on monday’s when everything is new but me.

— when i was older

the villainy you teach me i will execute—
after all,
the devil has his miracles too.

—and i am no saint

you cannot silence my voice,
erase who i am and stand to be.
i will not be pushed to nonexistence,
for my story is not written in pencil,
it is written in ink.

― and i will leave my mark on history

i have been burning my whole life.
encased in immaculate flames,
flying too close to the sun
on these fragile wax wings.

— an image of icarus

my mouth is full of burning candles
and hot wax seeps from between my teeth.
my tongue knows nothing but rage and fire
and i don’t know whether to swallow this flame
and choke on the smoke until the heat burns holes in my throat,
or to spit it out
and watch everything around me burn down.

— impulse control

do i believe in god?
i’m afraid i do not have an answer to that,
it’s hard to believe when all you see is this world’s cruelty.
but if they have seen the things i’ve seen
and experienced what in this world has been,
then god’s eyes must be just as tired,
just as sad,
just as done as me.

— what do you believe?

i do not speak like a poet.
my words are clumsy and callous
and i often trip over my own tongue.
there is no beauty to my words
or thought to my form,
and my voice does not fall soft and slow
like honey song, drizzled sweetly into willing ears.
rather it is raspy and quick-tongued,
laced with mispronounced words and oddly said accents.
my sentences race ragged and jumpy,
with capricious contours and half-finished phrases,
and i often lose my train of thought.
impulsive and unrefined,
i do not speak like a poet.

— but on paper i am a different person

my eyes are not blue,
they do not wash away your worries
in their soft ocean hue.

my eyes are dark brown,
and they carry the weight of the world
in their harsh earthy tone.


— heavy is the cost

the difference between feeling guilty
and feeling ashamed
is that society creates shame
and guilt is within yourself.
and i do not feel guilty for who i am.


― something i learned about being queer

i am better now,
but sometimes there are still blisters where i once had calluses,
and bruises still deep in my bones,
so please be patient with me.


― i am still a work in progress

my past is part of who i am,
i cannot erase it.
it’s written in the books collected on the
bookshelves between my ribs,
stacked upon my spine.

the stories of who i am are carved into me,
scripted on my skin,
branded on my bone,
there is no part of me that is not built upon
this blood of black ink.

i am a collection of my own tragedies,
of my own comedies,
of my own romances.
a library of my own experiences.

not all the collection is good,
some books are quite damaged,
but not all the collection is bad,
my pages are still full of love.

you can pick out which books to read,
which stories you like
and which you’d rather leave,
but it’s still
there,
my past is still a part of me.


― personal library

i've cut myself in places that hands could never reach, torn open scars in places that can never be touched. i've got a bad habit of searching for things that hurt me in places that are not easily healed, places where blood and bruises are intangible and bandages cannot stop the bleeding. so i bleed. i bleed and i hurt and i heal and i bleed again. a sort of cycle of self torture, these hebenon habits of the heart.


― it's time to break the cycle