the angel on my shoulder
picked up smoking,
the devil on the other
took up yoga—

they don't know
how much they have
in common.

my favorite part
is, I'm not sure
which of us was trembling;
maybe both.

use your kiss
as an elixir.

Let its sweetness
counter
the sour taste
my words leave.

Let its softness
knead my neck
and shoulders.

Let its calmness
soothe
my rapid thoughts
and breathing.

Let it remind me
I am loved,
and it is you
who loves me.

Smooth and sure,
like he shaves with Ockham's razor,
he's knocking on her door
at 2 AM.

What's more
is you'd think that it would phase her,
but she walks right down the stairs
to let him in.

je t'écris les petits mots français
parce que tu les as entendus en anglais.

je veux être la seule femme tu adore;
tu voudrais, tu a besoin d'encore.

mon coeur te connaît bien,
et tu peux l'avoir, si tu le tiens.

all of my journals
are graveyards
of half-written things
and half-lived experiences
with half-hearted repentance,
because i can't even commit
to being noncommital.

still,
flipping through them offers
a full representation
of the half-alive girl
who wrote them.

sitting at my job,
back in the lobby corner.
half-an-hour break.

no eyes fixed on me,
mine shift between the patrons,
coworkers, and boss.

when did these people
stop being happy? was there
a single moment?

or did it happen
slowly, creeping in without
much noise or notice?

tired employees,
uniform and all the same,
bleeding, same blank pain.

I have to look at
my blue socks sometimes to think
I'm any different.

The leaf and the petal
Earth elemental
Rich soil
from which spring sprouts spirit.

The honey and metal
Forged in a kettle
Will whistle
for all who will hear it.

They meet in the meadow,
this lady and fellow.
Ignite, and catch flight
on the wind.
Stardust and cinder
from fusion of splendor
return to the ether again.

On my way from you,
taking the last trip down your steps,
I slipped on ice we'd watched freeze from sheets of sleet,
from sheets of jersey cotton.

I caught myself,
but not before thinking back to that fall evening,
to the warm rain that oiled the top of the stairs across town;
back to when, on my way to you,
I left him
and lost my footing.

Grace aside, these moments
parallel in a way that fissured not bone,
but my psyche--
defining at once
this new she who sought one,
despite she who belonged to another.

Oh, the things she did say,
this foreign half of me,
as, descending your crystal-coated staircase,
she heard herself, for the last time, speak.

We had both fallen so in love with the sound of her voice.

On my way from you,
I caught myself,
and let her, broken, fall.

Your eyes
are iron cores
of dying stars.

I collapse
under their gravity.

You consume me,
and spit me out
in millionths.

The events that transpired
occured as written.
Our mouths and neurons fired,
seeding flowering unmention.
Fuel and fire brought attention
to a subtle, growing tension.
The events that transpired
occured as written.

A predictable reaction
to words written
caused the changes, gaining traction
among smitten.
An explosive interaction
between palpable attractions--
predictable reactions,
just as written.

Burned it to the ground,
as it was written.
The lost was found
and lost again, in stark and wry omission.
Quiet was the mission
born of wavering disposition.
It burned into the ground
as it was written.

Back to where we started,
all reversibly departed.
The events that transpired
occured as written.

Let me see your sadness

Let me play with
the shades of
your mind

Swirling
like paints
on a palette knife


You think of it excess
I find it divine

You can show me your sadness
It reminds me of mine

Here we go again
with the delusion that the end
will justify our means.
We don't need to change
if our conscience is clean.

Absolutely apathetic:
Do nothing and you can't regret it.
A waste of time of yours and mine,
you realize, but you don't get it.
Absolute absurdity,
the lengths I'll go so nothing hurts me,
the things I know that should concern me,
but I just can't seem to care.
What's it matter when we're going nowhere?

There can't be a new beginning
when everything revolves around losing and winning;
it's more like time that gets away.
While my head is spinning
you try to hold my hand,
and, though my words are fitting,
you don't seem to understand.

Absolutely apathetic:
Do nothing and you can't regret it.
A waste of time of yours and mine,
you realize, but you don't get it.
Absolute absurdity,
the lengths I'll go so nothing hurts me,
the things I know that should concern me,
but I just can't seem to care.
What's it matter when we're going nowhere?

What are we doing anyway?
I started this morning just like yesterday,
but the world is full of lies and pitfalls,
greedy hands and worried phone calls.
I'd rather build my hell
and paint the walls.

So let's do nothing!
I don't wanna do a ******* thing.

We're proud and we're stoic,
but we pretend like we don't notice.
Life's too short to lose your focus,
or you'll end up losing your way
and start the same tomorrow as you did today.

Let's do nothing!

Lately I'm so tired,
like an asteroid lost in orbit.
Set fire to a match
and now I'm burning for it.
But if there is anything
left I'm sure is true:
Honey, I am tired,
but I'm not tired of you.

Constantly so puzzled
when the pieces just don't fit.
Down the road, I'll work it out,
I feel so sure of it.
Oh, but when you kiss me,
who could care if that was true.
Honey, I am puzzled
but not ever about you.

For so long I've been in love
with no one but myself.
Hid all of the step ladders
and my heart on the top shelf.
The thing just gathered dust,
something I never meant to do.
But you brushed it off and now
I'm so in love with you,
so deep in love with you.

i've neglected to notice—
may as well say 'ignored'

only ivory nails
scratching emery, bored

but then every-so-often
it catches my ear

and it says the one thing
but with two things to hear

Your perfect love is a sunrise
to my cool and easterly heart.
The light you bring seeks for me
after many nights chasing the moon.

With dawn, I lose sight
of what the orb ever meant to me,
as you drown its scant light
and silence the stars.

It's cold, always was.
You're burning, for me.

The vibrance night stole,
you restore and replenish
with every slow tick of the axis.
Color floods fields and valleys
I'd wandered deep in darkness;
dew steams to scents of summer
as I watch treaded grasses spring to life.

It's here I sit.
Lost on tangled paths
I was sure were meant to lead me,
I forged another, alone,
and built a home.

You shine in through its windows,
seep in past my walls, and,
as I watch and wait for you,
you quietly reach for more of me.

On grandchildren
(by accident)
I told my mother
and my father:

I'd not force
another life
without asking
its permission first.

I almost took it back
to tell them
it's okay and that
I know
I was an accident.

I bought a pack of pens
The nice ones
But I'm anxious so
I only look at them
I bought the pens yesterday
I've opened them
The nice pens
But I'm anxious so
I haven't used them
Even though I
Am very curious
About the ink
And if it
Flows fluidly
Or paints itself
In the depression
Of the pressure
From my hand
There is one sitting in front of me
A nice pen
I'd like to know how it writes
But I'm anxious so
I can't pick it up
It sits
I have so much to say
But I am anxious so
Maybe later
I'll have forgotten
What it was
I ever wanted
To write
With the nice pen
In the first place

Looking back, it's almost comical
to think of times I've sought shortcuts
and found myself fumbling
into dead-ends and dark alleys.

I did not know you can't cheat time.
I did not know I was trying.

Looking around, I'm still in this town,
and all roads have led me to now.
On this route, I've been mugged
for all that I had
seeking the easy way out.

The sunflowers' heads
hang heavy with beauty—
it would mean nothing to me
but I seeded the dirt.
I can stake them and tie them
and they will comply,
smile and greet passersby,
but I know how they hurt.

I finally washed my bed sheets.

But on Mondays,
I still water that ******* orchid.

That beautiful blue *******
blooms a new hue every week.

And every week, I am forced to remember
(how could I forget)
how I watered and waited
for a new you to bloom—

not one more beautiful,
not one more suave,
or more handsome, or clever—

but the one you assured me was ripening, quiet
like the beautiful ******* before me.
The one that would love me,
despite being lifeless
for giving you all that supports me.



I thought about throwing it out

but every week,
the orchid keeps its promise.

I haven't learned the secret,
save to know that it exists.
I would tell you more about it
if it wouldn't break a promise.
Beyond its weighted words,
I can't be sure it can be heard
but I can tell you how it feels (or so I'm told).
It burns and, though it's searing, it feels cold.

I first fell
in love
on my head
with a boy who
was not
ready yet
(That's my type.)
and I left,
and I left
words unsaid
and I reddened
the face
of the boy
in my bed
for a boy who
was greedy,
could tell I
was needy,
could help stop
the bleed, but
was not
ready yet.
next was the boy
that I won
(No one won.)
he's the boy
who said "likewise"
and smiled
like the sun.
like a vision,
my dreams,
beautiful
make-believe,
so it was
and would be
about every
six weeks.
then, oh,
was the guy
who would hold me
real late
while we watched
pbs
and we tried
not to date
but he loved me,
we did,
and he made
me feel pretty
on my period
(he would move
and get married.
we’re happy
for him.)
in between
was the guy
who lived
inside my brain;
we drove ourselves
mad
and each other
insane.
I don't know
where his
band's playing
or how to spell
his kid's name
(Yes I do.
And he's cute.
I don't know
what I'm saying.)
next and last
but not least
was a boy
I would meet,
young and blonde
and could sing
and so
in love with me.
he wrote songs,
melodies,
composed small
symphonies—
but what I thought
of him
he did not think
of me.

it's been lovely
but lonely
when those
who would hold me
have told me
they loved me
but not
really known me.

If you think no one can change
then you believe this of yourself
and if you think this of yourself
then this is why.
Don't listen to the parts of you
that don't tell you the truth
should they benefit
if you believe the lie.

I daydream briefly
and I think about
the softened, muted features
of a female, screaming silently
and tearing at her shoulder blades.
(who is she, who could she be)

the softened, muted features
of an abandoned cardinal mother,
screeching at the loss of scarlet lover.
(where is he, or could he be)

the softened, muted features
of myself alone and sleeping,
finger tucked inside a book
I haven't read about self-love
that I just like to tuck my fingers in.
(how am I, how could I be)

*I don't know why
I want to tell you
but I do,
I really do.
I think my heart
is in an okay place
and think that
yours is too.

a brand new
atmosphere
to breathe in
made of
whispers
from my dreams
lifts my heavy
heart to light
new stardust
decorates
the night

brand new
air to
fill my lungs with
scent of nectar
to collect
and lubricate
our twisted
tongues with

brand new
sweetness
like a wholly
different
world bloomed
to become it

It's thrilling and it's terrible,
it's wondrous while unbearable:
the piquing mind
which seeks to find
the riddle in the parable.
Traverse the universe
like it is yours
for the unwrapping--
the only thing
of anything
to ever free its trappings.

You: a fire hazard,
and I am the glowing-red exit

whose handle you hold
just to be sure
nothing burns
on the other side.

But nothing can burn me.
What's burning is you,

on the outside
of the exit door.

My breath,
light and quickening,
candle flame flickering,
rose-scented sweat
     on my skin

Your fists,
clenched like iron grips,
backs arched to our tips,
bridging where we'll go,
     where we've been

But tomorrow,
in the sunrise,
with both of us here,
will you think about me?
or about her and everything?
The kindling you saw in her eyes
when she told you
if she wasn't his,
you'd be hers
(and if you not mine,
then her, yours).

When I grabbed at the sheets
and you grabbed for your jeans
Was it about your hurry?
or about her and everything?
Everything, everything, all of and anything,
anything that is not me.

Quietly sleeping, maybe dreaming,
I hear your heartbeat over mine.
I like it better.

Not long ago we spent nights awake,
holding hands, staring past the ceiling
fumbling for words like kids
arranging lettered magnets on a refrigerator door.
So afraid of the feelings
buzzing in our chests like frenzied honeybees
and the sweet, simple words they made
in the combs of our hearts.

The sweet, simple words on the tips of our tongues.
Oh, I could taste them each time you kissed me.

Now we lie here,
quietly sleeping, maybe dreaming
or holding hands, staring past the ceiling
resting on the flowerbed our love made.

I was depressed and called it ~lifted~
(still get off on being cryptic)
Did my best to take it back
but found my love had been regifted.
Now, though, surely I have grieved,
I'm done suspending disbelief:
let's put this one to bed
and get some sleep.