I make my home in the sky
and it’s beautiful
even when viewed through
blue-tinted lenses of acrophobia
Because it’s not so much
the fear of heights
as it is
the fear of falling from them.
There’s no one
waiting at the bottom for me –
all the more reason
to stay in the clouds.

I make my home in the sea
and it’s breathtaking
literally oxygen-stealing
But I don’t mind
letting my lungs drink their fill
of salt water.
I welcome the fullness.
I welcome the healing.
Watch me dance with the waves.

I make my home in the earth
and it’s a reminder
of all I am
and all I’m not.
I will find my solace in
the ground beneath my feet
and the trees above my head.
I will find my comfort
in canyons and caverns.
I will learn that it is fine
to know what darkness looks like
if only to love the light
so much more.

I make my home in your heart
and it is exactly
where I want
and need to be.
I would write more but
I’m too busy living
and falling
in love
with you.

You trail after me
like the tide
is pulled
and pushed by the moon.
Never mind the
broken and hollowed
bones that litter the
paths I walk.
You just
step around them.
And sometimes you will pick some up
and remind my shattered body
that it deserves to be whole.
I am no moon.
I am no light.
But this is me
hoping you won’t drown
and praying you won’t fall
when night darkens the path.
I’ll do my best
to be your moonlight.

Lately I have been hanging your voice on my wall.
It came in ten different frames,
and I spent hours adjusting them
until they hugged the wall at the perfect angle,
their gilded bodies pressing against painted emptiness,
whitewashed space.

And when I feel nostalgia
twining around my veins like wild ivy,
I only need to reach out and –

“Hello. My name is –“
“Hello. My name –“
“Hello. (Stop.) My. (Stop.) Name. (Stop.) Is. (Stop.)”
“Hellomynameis –“
Do you remember that?
Did you know my hands shook,
that I tripped over words like I do
with miniscule cracks in the sidewalk,
that my heart stuttered
thumpthump thu thump thuuump thumpthumpthump
and how it hasn’t quite been the same ever since?

“I love you.”
“I love (rewind) – love (rewind) – I love (rewind)– love (rewind)– I love you.”
“I love –“
“Iloveyou.”
You thought you could pry me open
and tear down my walls
and then suddenly you did.
It only took three words to start a hurricane in my heart.
Did you ever notice the aftermath,
the broken homes and homeless souls?
I am still rebuilding.

I hammered this one into my soul,
can still feel the echo of your words
pounding away in my bones:
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.”
“Good…(clickclickclick)… bye.”

I am a lighthouse
       or so I’ve been told
where few ships have sailed
in to find guidance.

I have been waiting
for a vessel to see my light
for a captain to come to shore
for the tides to wash up
        something more than
        a seashell
        a jellyfish
        an empty bottle
                with love letters drenched
                in tears and seawater
                (I couldn’t tell the difference)

I am a lighthouse
Please remember me
in the storm
and on cloudless nights
       when all the stars are
       irresistible in their glory
Remember me
as the place you come home to
Where you can let yourself in
(feel free to put your feet up)
and lay your head back
and let out a sigh that won’t
        be whipped away by ocean-saturated air

I am a lighthouse
in the middle of nowhere
Ships have wrecked themselves
on broken boulders that line my body
like a jealous widow, like a marked territory
Few have made it through.
None have ever stayed.
But my lamp is still burning
and my tower stands tall
and I will guide your journey,
        even if it means pointing over there
        when all I want is for you to stay here.

The day I left, I forgot to pack self-consciousness.
It was all too easy to reach into the mirror
and pull out my imperfections like saltwater taffy.
Then I ate them.
I wondered as I boarded the plane,
I wondered why my hands weren’t clenched in unrevealing fists,
I wondered why my eyes didn’t flicker to the person
behind me in front of me to my left to my right over here over there.
Perhaps my eyes were now focused on the clouds above and new lands below.

The day I left, I neglected to pack loneliness.
I roamed a new city, so alive, my lungs made room for more crisp
cigarette-infused air and I sat on the steps of a grand opera hall for hours
watching people walk, talk, listen, look, shop, love, learn, pretend, remember.
I understood why my arms did not ache
from the strain of carrying this lonesomeness,
I understood why there was so much beauty
in being a person submerged among thousands of people.
I realized it was a privilege I had been abusing for far too long.

The day I left, I refused to pack fear.
It unsettled my stomach and dampened most of the fun.
I left it there, tucked and stowed neatly away under my plane seat,
sending it back to where I came from and hoping
that the flight attendants would do a thorough cleaning.
I realized why some people got lost on purpose,
that there was fearlessness in not knowing
your north from south from west from east.

The day I came back, I carried
another missing piece of my vagabond heart.
I found it drifting in the strains of a street musician’s Vivaldi,
found it etched into the wooden signs above cafes and bakeries
found it in the spitting passion of lips and linguistics.
I recognized the part of me that was scattered across continents
and I brought it back home.

My body is not poetry.
My spine is curled up
into a question mark
from centuries of insecurity
and the weight of the
worlds trapped in my skull.

My thighs are canvases for
atlases, road maps, and
interstate highways that lead to
nowhere. Or everywhere.
They’re big enough for both.

Not when my hands
are the kind that are meant to tremble
not the kind meant to be held.

My hips are not made
for you to skim
your hands over.
They are guideposts:
between (here) and (here)
lies a dreadfully broken girl.

My body is not poetry.
Because it won’t last as long as
dried ink on yellowed, musty pages.
Because it breaks more easily
than the cracked spines
of a beloved, well-read book.
Because it is not something that
soothes the soul and
makes my heart ache all at once.

My body is not poetry.*
Mostly because I’m
just a little afraid
of anybody who would be able
to read me so well
to put me into words.

I want to throw off
the cloak of “trying to impress you.”
it’s gotten so
heavy
soaked with my insecurities
and self-loathing,
always snagging
on thorns and skeletons and the
remnants of broken hearts.
I want to shatter
the bottle that held my tears
shed over not being good enough.
Pour my philophobia
into a sea that never dries up.
It’s all salt water anyways.
I want to compose
a cacophony of all the voices that sung
“you’re fake” -- “ugly” -- “worthless” --“unloved” --
into my ears
and then burn the sheet music.
Destruction…
never felt so good.

I hope you won’t mind being an architect.
I learned a long time ago that it
will take more than just a little
Krazy glue to put my pieces
back together.

I hope you won’t mind being a pilot.
I was never very
fond of heights
but I have a talent for
falling too fast and too hard.

I hope you won’t mind being an astronomer.
It will take someone
with a lot of wonder
to trace the constellations
scattered across my body.
Sorry in advance –
I connected some of the dots already.

I hope you won’t mind being a meteorologist.
One who isn’t
afraid to don a raincoat and boots
and stand in the storm to say,
“Expect some passing showers
but watch for the sun and
wait for the clouds to clear.”

I hope you won’t mind being you.
As long as you won’t mind me being me.

I stood under the showerhead today
cleansing myself and wondering
if the same thing could be done to my past.

Head first, I
lather my hair,
massage my regrets into my skull
and I let it sit.
I’ve done this enough times that
I think my brain
has absorbed them all
The sorrows seep in
and decide that one rinsing
        - and neither was two, or three, or four
wasn’t quite enough
        - my arms are sore so I guess I’ll just move on.

Next, my skin
is subjected to vigorous scrubbing.
I can never
remove enough layers of shame
I can never
exfoliate all my guilt
and when I look down, my hands
contain ghost stains of crimson gloves
        - “Out, ****** spot! out, I say!”
I wonder if
anyone else sees me this way
I wonder if
the callused and scarred tissue in my heart
can be so easily removed
like dust, grime, oil, blood.

I slump against the tile wall,
letting the water scald the coldness inside me.
Is it easier to live when you close your eyes
instead of watching the things that nearly killed you
swirl around in infinite eddies
down the drain?
I flinch at the way the water
gurgles down the pipes, wondering why
it’s so easy for them to take it in
and let it go.

The water stops. I shake off
the last of the tenacious water droplets
and I run my hands down my wrists, my ribs, my face
It is good to feel like your body is a clean slate.
I remember what all I scrubbed and scraped and
rubbed off, and I think
*No more. No more. No more.

I loved you like a forgotten dream.
        Searing so vividly into
        the recesses of my cerebrum.
        Like fire.
        Setting my heart aflame with
        gasoline-slicked words
        that felt like a balm on my
        dry skin.

I loved you like the air after it rains.
        Breathe in, breathe out,
        but I could never
        get enough of you.
        If words could cradle
        a broken heart,
        as tangibly as callous-roughed hands
        and bumpy veins running like ivy
        down your arms,
        then drape me in letters
        and knit poems around my shoulders.

I loved you like light in an empty space.
        Because that is what you were.
        And even though you left,
        I still feel your warmth,
        still feel vestiges of heat
        tucked away in my dusty corners.
        Don’t fade.
        Don’t fade.
        Be the night sky that my eyes
        drink in like glassy pools of stars
        for a parched astronomer.
        Be a Category 5 hurricane, where I
        make a home in your center
        using pieces of stolen debris.

I simply loved you, and as much as I’ve tried,
I cannot find an image more beautiful than that.

You think you have to carry the past
like a sack of rocks weighing on your spine.
I’m here to tell you that you don’t.
Let me take them out,
one by one,
let them fall to the ground,
one by one,
and help you let
it
go.
And when you’re ready,
I’ll skip them across lakes and ponds with you
and watch them sink to the bottom,
where they belong.

You think you have to bruise yourself with hatred and sorrow
like a champion prizefighter.
I’m here to tell you that you don’t.
Put down your fists
and let the adrenaline
dissipate in your bloodstream.
Take a deep breath in, and let
it
out.
Learn to love yourself.
There’s no need to fight that any longer.

You think you have to always stand tall
like an impenetrable fortress.
I’m here to tell you that you don’t.
My darling, it is okay to let
me
in.
And it is okay to crumble a little bit.
Let ivy grow up your sides, if only
to remind you that life
is still possible within your hands.
And when you finally fall, I hope you realize
that you never were just a stronghold.
You are the sky,
the unreachable horizon,
and every beautiful thing in between.

We laughed, you and I
creating a domino effect,
collateral damage for my heart.
Your smile was a trigger that set off
every rigged-up butterfly in my stomach.
Your shaking shoulders wobbled the earth
into a movement that threatened
my rubber knees.

We played, you and I
fingers dancing over ivory keys,
making melodies like the jangling of broken teeth,
strumming cutting notes that plucked
my heartstrings like fresh, ripe fruit.
I used to sit tucked against your side
as your voice spun webs around my rationality.
**** you.
I still find them clinging sometimes
to the dusty, abandoned corners of
memories that fade too readily.

I remember, me, myself, and I
an embarrassing ambassador
from the nation of Unrequited Love.
I still wonder if it was Love,
or just blind stupidity,
or desperate masochism.
Because the memories now hurt more
than the sight of you, because my legs are still
unstable props for my caved-in heart,
because I haven’t the strength to
compose a new cacophony for my bones.
You and I, you and I, you and I
are just figments of a ghostly past.
Now I’m ready to leave them there.

The other day, I accidentally
spilled moonlight on the shadows
where you used to sleep.
I almost cleaned it up
until I realized it didn’t matter anymore.

I told the clouds they were not
welcome to shed tears
over your side of the bed,
that the rain had to drown me too.

I asked the sunset if
it ever missed the sun,
if vermillion meant farewell,
if the dusky purples hurt
when they were pressed,
if the coming darkness
felt as natural and as effortless
as it looked.

And when the night finally fell
in black oblivion
I found the light you left
in the corners of the room,
under the pillow,
in the spaces between my fingers.
I found it everywhere in the darkness
and nowhere in the daylight
and I hate you for that –

Which is why I started
making room for the moon in my bed
even though he bleaches the sheets.
And I let the clouds lay down their burden
gently, gently over your pillow
in place of my own.
I stopped asking the sunset questions
that I couldn’t answer
and started digging my hands
into the gracefulness of the sky and the ocean and
everything in between.

it hurts it hurts it
hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts
I can't stand breathing.

My love, it has been getting harder
(and harder)
to hold your heart
and be your shield.
Because your most fatal enemy
is yourself.

I see the way you
fling open your arms –
vulnerability is beautiful,
but cleaning the wounds on your back
stings me more than the initial plunge
of knife through skin and sinew.

I can hear your broken heart late at night.
It is the sound of a fist
shoved in your mouth,
teeth clamped down
on your knuckles as you fight
the pain bubbling up like acid.
And it is the sound of Time
doing his best
to suture what is left of a tattered spirit.
You think I’m asleep,
or that I can’t hear you,
but there is something about the night,
unashamed of whispering horrible truths.

I will never refuse to match your ache,
(wound for wound)
because Love bears all things
but now I am begging you
to set them all down
and heal.

My love, it will get easier
(and easier)
to hold your own heart
and be your own shield.
Because your greatest friend
is myself.

There are some things that hurt more than others:
(i) The moment before a purple-and-yellow bruised sunset
is swallowed up by the horizon in its flaming farewell.
(ii) The concave spaces in the landscape of your lonely body
when nobody is present to fill them in, to wander through.
(iii) The view of someone’s back, an omnipresent reminder
that everyone has to leave at one point or another.

There are some things that heal more than others:
(iv) The rush and ebb of the waves in the ocean,
they know that people leave and things change,
but they come back (and leave), come back (and leave)
until you realize that the return makes the leaving hurt less.
(v) The scars in your skin
which belie the ones on your heart
Not everything is able to form scabs so easily.
(vi) A good hug, the kind that picks you up and spins you around
and squeezes your heart within a fist of love and trust.
The best hugs are the ones that make you feel like
they never let go.

What wonderful
and terrible
things to behold in this life.

There are beauties hidden between your ribs
that neither you nor I have thought to dream.
My words flicker and fade.
Your words flicker and fade.
You are beautiful.
It means very much to me.
I’ve seen you moving - there, high above me,
in light and have known
the hidden places of your life.
You think I am only speaking,
only trying to bend these
little words and facts
to some sound that will resonate
for the both of us - I see more clearly than that.
There are oceans in your tremblings -
at night, when you are alone,
the world waits for you,
shivers at your self neglect.
You are lovely.
You are lovely.
We are darling, you and I.
We are all the moments
leading to our ruin and death.
We are life itself - coursing into each other,
knowing what is unknowable,
unholy to speak -
knowing that we are - we are -
and beautifully so.

There are some things that
I’ll never understand
like why I engraved “F A D E”
into my upper left forearm
and trace over the uneven markings
a little too fondly sometimes.
I didn’t mean for it to be funny,
and I didn’t mean for it
to actually mean something
But it did.
Because scars don’t always fade,
and I wanted the ones left on my heart to
and I wanted the ones left on my arms to
remind me —
that life will hurt you
but life will heal you
and when it does —
Let it.
Let it.
Let it.

my mind is a one track
one track
one track thing.
and if i keep talking
keep talking
keep talking to you
i will
i will
i will
probably implode from the sheer
giddiness in my heart.
we’re just friends
just friends
just friends but i will never be able to think of you solely as that.
but thank you
thank you
thank you for being kind, intelligent, sweet, considerate, lovely, beautiful.
i love you
i love you
i love you even if i’ll never be able to tell you.

If I could only express
how fiercely and viscerally
I long to be loved —
Oh, but I have
and it ended badly
and I still have the scars on my
wrists and ribs.
Loneliness is a
cruel and cutting thing.
And I only wish
that I had not
sharpened the blade myself.

Let me*
i. run my fingers over your
        life-hardened calluses
ii. trace the ridges and creases
        of each joint on the terrain
iii. climb the peaks of
        all your knuckles
        (and scream when i get to the top)
iv. read your palms like a map,
        a timeline,
        and everything in between
v. follow the bumpy paths
        of your veins to a
        bright and beautiful place.

I loved you in a beautiful place
the kind that is clothed with darkness and fear
with boiling hate and spewing bitterness
as I huddle over you
wrap my arms around you
and shield you from burn scars that already
litter your body
I loved you in a beautiful place
the kind where you limp to me in defeat
your head pounding your heart thumping
and I lay my head against your chest,
wondering if the palpitations are yours or mine
I loved you in a beautiful place
the kind where you tell me, “be okay. please.”
while your wounds are still fresh and your bruises still sore
don’t you know that I hurt because you hurt?
I loved you in a beautiful place
the kind where we cling to each other
spanning 216.7 miles in between
I’m sorry my arms aren’t long enough to reach you from here
I loved you in a beautiful place
in the aftermath of your father’s anger
and your mother’s diagnosis
and the melodies they stole from you
I loved you in a beautiful place
I loved you in a painful place
I loved you in a heartbreaking place
and I’m not afraid to call it home.

The other day, I accidentally
spilled moonlight on the shadows
where you used to sleep.
I almost cleaned it up
until I realized it didn’t matter anymore.

I told the clouds they were not
welcome to shed tears
over your side of the bed,
that the rain had to drown me too.

I asked the sunset if
it ever missed the sun,
if vermillion meant farewell,
if the dusky purples hurt
when they were pressed,
if the coming darkness
felt as natural and as effortless
as it looked.

And when the night finally fell
in black oblivion
I found the light you left
in the corners of the room,
under the pillow,
in the spaces between my fingers.
I found it everywhere in the darkness
and nowhere in the daylight
and I hate you for that –

Which is why I started
making room for the moon in my bed
even though he bleaches the sheets.
And I let the clouds lay down their burden
gently, gently over your pillow
in place of my own.
I stopped asking the sunset questions
that I couldn’t answer
and started digging my hands
into the gracefulness of the sky and the ocean and
everything in between.

I have been listening to a voice
She is not mine.

She told me things like
“I can’t hear anything so neither can you.”
things like
“This is it. Your words have shriveled up
and ran away
it is the bitter taste of ink left on
your tongue.”
things like
“You lost your voice.
You lost yourself, too.”

I have been listening to a voice
She is not mine.

She painted the world in
the brightest shades of gray
and siphoned all the strength I had
to at least pick up the paintbrush
She convinced me that my
arms were too short for murals
that all I could do was
lie on my back and stare
up
up
up
at things beyond my grasp.

I have been listening to a voice
She is not mine.

She planted herself right in front of me
I only pushed her away
so I could see the stars.
No one told me
there was more than one way
to look up at the night sky.
I should’ve just stepped around her.

I don’t want to feel your absence in my bones.
I don’t like the way my veins stretch, outwards,
like they’re trying to make their way back to you.
Because it only serves to remind me how
even I don’t call my body “Home.”
I don’t want to feel your absence in my bones.

brief moments spent
whispering and tiptoeing
because i've been told
that my voice is too loud
and my weight is too much
for the earth to handle.
brief moments that sum up to
time taken from this:
stomping my feet
               to remind my body of its existence
raising my voice
               because fear withers my vocal cords otherwise
digging my hands
               into the gracefulness of the sky and ocean and
               everything in between.

Sometimes, someone's fingers will give my
soul a little flick
and instead of hearing the
dull thud of fingertip on wood,
I'll hear a crisp, pure ding.
I am always waiting for that sound.

it is an
infinitely
more beautiful thing
to leave
with the stars
clutched in your palms
than to fade
into trickled away time.

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry
The words that
fall from my lips
only seem to know
how to shatter.