There was once a time
Before we were used
As a womb
Before we were one
With the moon
Where we were born
As bodies
At a magnetic zero
Our crotches smooth
At rest with no circulation; indication
Of what could happen next

We were born without predetermined regrets

Bodies as life without currency
Running through warm earth trees
Following lights into our
Tangible youth memorials
Eye to eye in the urgent wet dark

My friends are not made of glass!

I reiterate- - we are not made of glass

Midnight forced itself on us
And our chests grew
And blew up balloons
We were told to lock our knees
Handicapped by skirts
Told to stop climbing trees anymore

Becoming a woman meant putting dreams in the hand of pale knuckles and male grip

The boys were infallible; desirable
The boys were never accused of
Being made of glass

Becoming a woman meant shifting our frequencies to different notes
Bleeding and sleeping in separate rooms
Porcelain dolls with stillness for crowns
Others falling to unfix-able pieces on the ground

Slowly in the dark
We all shifted apart
To discover something new
Between our legs
But not necessarily our hearts

I reiterate- - **we are not made of glass

i thought we'd never speak again
oh my god those pink memories
i thought i'd never sleep again
eyelids always shaken awake
i thought we could have loved
but i forgot you also had to try
i thought you would care if i cried
but my tragedies were humble white noise
beneath her blaring melodies
i thought i was the crazy one
for loving something i couldn't name
i thought i'd lost my mind
in the summer of 2014
i thought by thinking less
and loving more
i could score a golden life

i thought that every glance was a promise chance of getaway

now i know they were just friendly looks of scorn

we’re both awake
with serpent venom veins  
you’ve been the hero
I’ve been the ****
you’re on a map
red pin running fast
away from me
The black hills could
have set you free
now you chase your fake degree
you’re on a map
in the place you’ve always been
never thinking always win
your pieces kept falling
like pennies
making an echo of your
crowded wounds
I dance in a crowded room
hallucinating you
you’re probably sinking
into all things pink and blue
I hope you still miss large pieces of me too
howling at the moon
you switch from dust to ash
in the corner of my room

What is love ideally? That feeling, the warm fuzz from the dryer swirling and stirring in your chest, or when your world goes from two dimensional to three. When you lock pupils, the most uniform part of the human, with someone else and you get the feeling that Icarus is still flying, and you feel the sun burn your face but know it will never melt your wings.

We could look at love romantically; we’re all boarding the Arc two by two, matching species, lost in hands interlocked with no room for disbelief. Once we feel the magnetic pull of our opposing match, the game is won and our perfect weather never breaks. Just keep searching for “the one”. It’s only a matter of time. The world is small and our destinies are large.

We could look at love scientifically. Love is a symptom of the inevitable disease of heartbreak. We are all warm bodies longing for animal touch. We create our own perceptions of the perfect companion, a hybrid of fantasy. But really, love is a chemical reaction in the brain, a handicap, a weakling’s way of coping with the fact we are alone. Our limber limbs trip up into pairs, carrying on the human result of isolation.

We could look at love as a tradition. It’s our duty and right to love, to match, to create. Pieces of you live on through monogamy, shards of yourself buried in divorce. Frost bitten gowns in a church as dark and bright as the center of the sun. Silver moon songs seal your fate to another, your reality shall adjust. Awaken to your chosen fate, let your legacy live on.

We can look at love as a possession. A hunt, a capture, a wrestling match. You keep working to be the best for me, because I am the best for you. Hands touch and never let go. Between living and dying, a ghost and it’s shadow. Both exist for the other, but lack substance. An apparition and a lack of light, living side by side but barely together. A flickering bulb.

Whether we learn to love or become love, it is something cultivated, circling our skulls like halos from our inner holy ghost. Dampened only when we accuse others of not performing their love correctly, we must remember that every person on earth is performing a different love.

What's left unattended ferments into hate.

it's like trying to filter something so large
nothing can escape
it's like watching something you never had
but know you would have loved
go up in flames
it's like every set of locked eyes as the first
it's like being a verbal mute
it's like hurting yourself before someone else can
it's like you lose yourself in what they expect
it's lonely as a safe house and solitude as freedom
it's like searching for the word
you couldn't quite find 4 months ago
it's word salad for every meal
and imagined conversations for dessert
leaves a good taste in your mouth

it's friends as sanity
it's like knowing a person for years or never knowing them at all

emotional enslavement

Our Young Bodies
we need to decide
what to do with their electricity

Translucent Lover
I'm not ready
to admit defeat
to my own judging policies

Mother of Ours
holed up in the house
no way out

Muscular Machines
moving through time
all around me

Sultry Promises
between crumbling bed sheets

Our Memories
crushed to powder
with the soles of my shoes

Lost Legacies
in the space between
your ears

Slung with your tongue

Vibrations of Tides
crashing against the cheers

Little Boy Burning
let the attic fill
with smoke

Lungs
expand with every single
Hallelujah


Wide Open Souls


the rest gather dust
in train stations