Frost
creeping along the window
pane
that trails along with spidery crystal
hands
and blooms on the glass the
same
way she captured my fascination
until
I realized that I was the glass and
she
aimed to smother, to obscure, all other
views.

my wrists still hurt more from your rough hands
pinning me to the floor,
than anything I've ever done to them before.

my head still aches more from screaming,
rather than by an old concussion lingering.

my eyes still cry and leak over,
but I'm not sure why anymore.

But as long as it's don't ask, don't tell,
I'll be fine.

This is a portrait of abandoment:
rusty spokes, faulty breaks, and negligent owners.

(I'm still lying on the sidewalk too, waiting for a reason to shift gears.)

I want more cute skirts
to go with my thigh highs and psychotic tendencies.

it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody
the same way humans are put in coffins--
deliberately heart-wrenching, a science.
an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background,
buzzing, humming but then hear it--
blank stares as the road carries on, gradually,
slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back--
songs that we said were ours were never ours to have,
an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny,
auditory memories that taunt and torture:
the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts,
major chords aren't happy,
but cause discordance--
clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover--
you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop--
yes, change the channel--
but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head,
remembered and reminisced over static--
but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette,
the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone...

but even colder still,
the empty seat next to you.

Darling, I hope I'm the cause of your
existential crisis,
opening your mind
in horrifying,
vulnerable
ways.

I hope I make you question
and I hope I make you learn.
Maybe I'll rewire your brain--
praise me
let me incarcerate my
writings in your
bones,
let my thoughts linger,
let the pads of my finger tips
dwell along
the contours of the railways
in your head,


let me in.

Drive me
to the
moon and back
and maybe we can
take a detour around

the big dipper
and get lost in {the}

s         p      a        c           e

between us...

My thoughts are
scattered ashes to the wind--
non-collectable burnt and charred,
wood that I would've carved into the likeness
of hearts, love letters
that I failed to make my point in,
and
newspapers that should be a cohesive story
but ended up a collision of black and white print
and jumbled media confusion.

that man has a fever (for flesh),
one would think
that one would
need to be cooled
in order to leave her undressed.

always hanging 'round the ladies
strong and handsome
hollywood smile,
the good adonis, a fair tease.

but his nonage was not dominated
by girlish squeals or hearts,
boys like him were quiet-like
and kept under the dark.

(for what if they found out?)

-lying on a bed with satin sheets and stacks of cash

-pastel pink lingerie and a matching pistol to go with it

-black chokers with pearl earrings

-crystal chandeliers to break

-making your girl ******

Red,
Paint me red
The color of our passion, dear heart--
Until I realize you that you painted it
The color of rusty hinges.

Yellow,
Paint me yellow
Because I thought yellow was sunshine
And happy
Or maybe windswept afternoons
For dandelion wishes--
Until I saw that you painted me sickly green pale yellow, the color of hospital rooms and body fluids.

Paint me blue
A soulful sky blue,
I thought that you couldn't go wrong with blue--
But now I'm an indigo mess, very sad
Drowning--blue, I'm blue.

So paint me black
Like hateful ink
Or skies with no sun, no stars,
  I'll be a masterpiece then--
Or maybe I should've realized you're no painter, and I'm not a clean canvas anymore.

The dexterity of created complexity,
to at which rate what we ponder--
to fabricate or conceal,
which is harder?

He's concrete and
I'd love to be sidewalk chalk --
wash me away with rain,
but first let me lay a brief mark of my own
on all of his sidewalk cracks and all of his
broken pieces, the little slabs and pebbles that
weathered off from storms -- let me spill drawings there
with neon bright color
that are almost obscene in their hue.

Yes, I know it's temporary, we're temporary,
but maybe that's what makes it so
magnificent.

Love me for my destruction, for my mayhem --
after all, loving you isn't so much different,
I could have chosen cigarettes, smokey ashtrays over your
smokey eye make-up,
Or maybe alcohol, sip at lukewarm beer, and become embittered by how
your lips are stained elegantly wine,
and then again, I might've had the opportunity to inhale car exhaust
but your breath is much heavier than monoxide
and much more deadly--
turns out nuclear warfare is much more easily attainable by
your explosive needs
for genocide -- you love those broken hearts,
you little radioactive succubus.
Knives, I could have made love to a knife, but I guess your nails served the same purpose, you've left your mark, okay?
I have a target in the shape
of little crescent marks on my back from you and
people keep
staring.
And yes, I could've injected myself with something stronger like morphine, but
you're already running through my ******* veins --
I looked up "infatuation" in the dictionary but the words kept
blurring because all I could see was your blushing expression
when I used my fingertips like paintbrushes
on your cheekbones.

Outside: it is scary, mean and cruel,
but don't worry,

this is a safe place.

Outside: it can hurt, and bite, and fool,
but don't mind it because

this is a safe place.

under covers and warmth, you want to erase my nightmares for a while. let us kiss away fears.  take my demons. hide our bodies and whispered sweet nothings
dwell in this fort of blankets and sheets,
since

this is a safe place.

Bury our love here, let this be not a graveyard, but a garden to remember, a haven of our romance,
don't cry,
don't fret,

you're safe, this is a safe place.

Your mind is an archivist's *******, I'd like to spend an indefinite amount of time there and observe the inner workings
like a astrologist, seeing your constellations of thought...
it also doesn't hurt that your stubbled jawline
seems to speak volumes, and I wonder
if it's chiseled proportions would mind me using them
as braille.
I'd like to know the caverns of your mouth
more intimately--
please whisper prose on my collarbones...
and I don't believe in love at first sight,
but maybe, love at first poem.

There's something beautiful
about the way people drink
their coffee in the morning,
with rumpled clothes
and bed head, and
even tired eyes.

In their gaze is slow long
sips of determination,
routine,
hope,
and
caffeine,
and
I can't help but wonder–
what battles
they're
preparing for.

is the title of my self-published poetry book-- it will have stuff not seen by anyone or hello poetry, so tune in, if you wanna.

clinging desperately
a lone leaf
on an autumn branch,
enduring the cold winds that blow--
the breath of winter,
the darkened skies,
the bare branches of skeleton trees.
one more push and it will fall,
swoop down in all poetic glory,
to paraphrase life's forgotten misfit ideals--
no matter the tenacity of the leaf,
how strong its stem holds,
falling is fate,
and rotting is
inevitable.

margins are|_________________
home  ­         |________________
to day-        |________________­
dreamy       |_________________
doodles  ­    |_________________
and  ­           |________________
cavalier ­     |________________
corr­ections|________________
or­ some      |________________­
times          |______________­
home          |_____________­__
to my         |_________________
empty   ­     |_________________
word­s        |________________
­and            |_______________­
prettily      |_____________­__
penned      |___________­___
lies.            |_________­_______

Can they read my margins,
see between
the lines
and cut into the edges of
my
conflicted
pages?

                   {I'll never know}

we are the raging portrait of lust, tangled in a mess of sensation, kaleidoscope of color and melodies of sanction--
we hum with ancient urges and vibrations.

fingers and hard planes, bodies like constellations, lips that are stained in stardust--
flying comets, gravity is our force.
we can't deny physics, we can't change our course.

worship, cherish, release. over and over. til i hear nothing but your name emanating from my throat, enthralled.

darling, love is luminescent
and we are its very stars.

America the Brave,
did you ever look beyond the porch, and see the smoke?
I have felt each gunshot wound and bookmarked each media news story
and even catalogued some photographs
for you to look over again.
because it seems you have a strange habit of forgetting
all the times
where places that children should be learning and laughing
began to look like cemeteries, the doors closing like a cruel purgatory,
when another **** maniac rages in with a legal firearm –
“mommy, I’m okay, but all my friends are dead.”
red crayons will never look the same—
I’ve found that bleach does not clean out
the stains on the carpet and words alone do not console the masses.

America the Free,
have you heard the terrifying orchestra of screeching tires on pavement?
didn’t you learn that running away is the same as running to meet a date with the reaper?
America, please tell me why
I cannot look for safety in a blue uniform, tell me why
the word “police” inspires more fear and pain
than it stands for justice?
there, in the empty streets, are the echoes of the voices in the night that you failed to hear when the sound of
sirens drowned the world in shades of wrong--
“I can’t breathe.”
“I don’t have a gun, stop shooting.”
“please don’t let me die.”
I stand at the gates between crossroads but nobody looks each other
even if there’s the unspoken truth
that some of us are more likely to be studying obituaries than studying to
be finishing our high school and college degrees.

America the Bold,
  please listen when I tell you that there is a pain you cannot hide
beneath IPhones and reality television,
when all I see is hallowed eyes,
empty hands, and
more parents that shouldn’t have to know
what it’s like to buy caskets in mass production, before they even knew how to read, before they could sing praises of your liberty, before they even had a chance to pray for a different fate, one they actually deserved.

America the Beautiful,
for all your Spacious skies, and amber waves…
have you looked at the ugliness of your ****** palms?

he’s interested in disasters,
the kind of catastrophes that the media has a field day with,
the kind of accidental atrocities that are awe-inspiring in their horrid glory,
the kind of things that have self destructed spectacularly – so much so that the remaining debris becomes a masterpiece on the ocean floor, a memorial for beautified trauma.

and I guess that’s why he’s interested in me.

If you ever go to war with me
just be aware that I'd
more likely run away
than confront my fears,
my anger,
or fight
{in any case, I would direct it on myself}.
I'm embittered by too much fighting,
I've been a veteran of too much
Tragedy.

So when you start a war,
please do not use bullet-coated words,
or arrows of logic,
or cold stone truths.

Only, look me in the eye,
smother me in love,
**** me with kindness,
And I will surrender
gladly.

it's been nine summers since we left last off,
i never wanted to associate anguish with your face
but it hits me that there are certain things
i can never forget,
i cannot forget,
i will not forget,
that you made me,
shaped me in your delicate hands,
wove me under a spell that i have yet to
get out of--
you know you gave my childhood magic.
we lived in a kingdom of treehouse stories
and secret handshakes, our domain behind
white picket fences. we left our child selves
in your yard, remember?
i picked up the pieces of half
drowned memories, and put them by your bedside,
in case you thought to look and perhaps it was presumptuous of me to say you felt the same way
when i am the only one who is overdosed on nostalgia.

i'm sorry.
i am homesick for the arms i am not privileged to
be held with, homesick for the stairs that
creaked in your house, homesick
for a love i never deserved but always wanted.
i'm the old pick up truck your father threw away,
the ramshackle closet that got replaced,
the old curtains, oh god, oh, but this
is not about me,
this is about us.

we both agreed that we always hated the small town life
and planned to run away
but why is it now that i'm still holding onto spider webs
and your packed suitcase has flown you across the globe?
is it sad to say that in my dreams
we're still waiting in an empty parking lot,
and your head resting on my shoulder, the lights on the pavement,
it's already over, it already passed and the cars aren't there,
and the moment is gone.

maybe it's not the saddest thing in the world
to lose your best friend when the love
was never meant to be,
and maybe it's not the saddest thing to love
someone who will never love you as a lover,
maybe it's not the saddest thing to lose
someone who promised forever, even
if forever was only until we parted ways,
maybe it's not the saddest thing to lose
the first true friend you ever had,
maybe it's not the saddest thing to
never be able to walk up your front porch and have you come running
out to see me of all people,
but
it is the most painful happiness to see your smile
and knowing that i am not the reason.

Walking into a store can be dazzling
and distracting,
accepting the culture to embezzle,
anything to lure the customer
and make a consumer.

But walk in, and find
the salesperson to ruin the image:
"hello, can I help you? What are you looking for?"

(not your help, thanks)

Similarly, self-promotional smucks
give me the same feeling.

I'm not going to check out your mixtape, I'm not going to check out
your youtube, I refuse to be bought, just because you asked nicely.