You better stop trippin'
or you might
fall in love.

I bought you a crown,
nothing special, it's cardboard,
decorated with construction paper and smeary markers;
it looks like an elementary art project, but you look like a King with it placed crookedly upon your head.

You told them to step aside,
the corners of your lips curled up,
slightly gaped teeth shone beneath your top lip,
you say "the Queen is coming through," and our hands brush as I walk by.

You are powerful, strong, confident —
the King of Sass,
the King of Humor,
the King of Charm,
the King of my heart.

I am frail, self-conscious, jealous —
the Queen of Uncertainty,
the Queen of Rosy Cheeks,
the Queen of Midnight Tears,
the Queen of Imagination...
After all, you only see me as a commoner.

Why?
She tells me I'm wrong.
He tells me nothing.
You
care...

Why?
She criticizes my work.
He criticizes my leadership.
You
praise me...

Why?
She apologizes for being jealous.
He apologizes for doubting me.
You
smile and call me crazy...

Why?*
She remains victorious.
He remains wrapped around her demands.
But You
are all that matters...

This morning,
I lost an earring.
Last year,
I lost you.

And you're not around now,
You won't see me graduate.
And you're not here,
So you wouldn't know how much I miss you.

And sometimes I wonder if it's better,
If those childhood stories about Heaven are true,
If you've gotten your memories back,
Your happiness back.

And I know that we had good times,
That plastic teacups were more important
Than plastic chairs bolted down
In uncomfortable hospital waiting rooms.

But maybe I'm being selfish,
Wanting you to be here with me.
Maybe I should be grateful that I even knew you,
That I had the honor to call you Pappy.

And I'll always miss your thick glasses.
And I'll always miss the way you sang just because you felt like singing.
And I'll always miss how you laughed.
And I'll always miss you.

And this morning,
I lost an earring.
But at least I can find it later,
Sitting on the bathroom sink.

Wet paper towels,
And broken candy canes.
I'm cleaning again.

You asked me if I was okay,
And I continued to throw scraps of paper in the trash.
I'm cleaning again.

Ten minutes ago your eyes danced with mine,
And now I'm wiping away the marker stains.
I'm cleaning again.

I toss my feelings down
But no amount of scrubbing can rub them away.
I'm cleaning again.

You spent the day with me,
And I'm cleaning again.

stain her lips with your kisses,
but do not paint her face with your anger.
rage does not fit in romance,
too many letters have gone missing,
and too many souls gone silent.
let her skin be canvas untouched,
caressed out of love for the unknown,
stroked with a soft touch.
forget what callused the tips of your bristles -
there will always be another sunset to capture tomorrow,
and an artist is nothing without good supplies and good ideas.
but she is not a paintbrush,
a tool you get to control -
make her your muse instead of a tattered sketchbook page.
take her weeping from the background of a dark forest,
to the foreground of the sun rising on a soft-sanded new tomorrow -
take her into your arms,
mold her sweetly, gently into your heart,
and allow the clay to harden and heal any cracks still exposed.
a woman is a work of art on her own,
ready to be appreciated -
there is no need to change her beauty,
only a craving to be a part of it.

Why am I still tripping over your words?
when my ears can't hear you speak
a thousand miles away;
when my feet can't run into your arms
a thousand miles away.

Why am I still putting you in a frame?
when I can't look at your smile everyday
a thousand miles away;
when I can't touch what's behind the glass
a thousand miles away.

Why am I singing your favorite songs?
when you left your microphone
a thousand miles away;
when the word love will never reach you
a thousand miles away.

Why am I writing poems about you?
when you never read them anyways
when we were both
a thousand miles away
from where I am now without you.

Baptize me in your waters.
I want to drown in the depth of your eyes
and breathe under the soft waves of your kisses.
Let the broken shells you wear
mix with the muddied sands of my foundation.
They can exfoliate the castle walls built around my heart.
Pull me under -
whether in clear reflections of sunny coasts
or trifling shades of navy tsunamis.
Consume me.
Consummate something -
before it all washes away,
before it all sinks
and marries decaying wood and yellowed pearls
hidden beneath hope, dreams,
and greed.

Killing fields in Texas are no place for a pull over love affair,
Even if you're thinking about voting for the Zodiac Killer in this election.
Velvet skin against corn husks that look like the birds nesting on Trump's head -
It's no wonder they're so painful, but it doesn't hurt as much when you're loving a man who has more experience than Bernie has years;
No one has to know about this, baby, just as long as you promise to always love me and never send me any emails.

It's not my party,
But it is my body.
My self worth does not lower
When the length of my dress raises above my thigh.
My opinion on whether or not I'd date you -
Well, it might come as a surprise,
But there's a positive correlation
Between your 1000 asks and my 1000 ways to somewhat politely say no.
My body is my property -
Consider it a privilege to place your hands on it.
And that slow dance,
Consider that the only gift you'll ever get from me.
Maybe you should be grateful for my presence -
Sorry my personality isn't as ****,
But my mind goes on autopilot
When I'm trying to get you to understand that
NO.
no
No
NO
Nah.
Not really.
It's not my thing.
I don't want a relationship right now.
I'd rather dance with my friends.
I'm not giving my flowers up for the rose you bought me.
No -
Actually means no.
There is no fine print.

smother optimism.
erase JUSTICE
after it's penned in bolded capitals.

Let's just table this discussion
so I can table you.

I live in a society that mocks mental illness,
and with a mother that sugarcoats depression.
You're just tired,
she says as I try to overdose on Vitamin D
and my younger brother's pain pills
to be the good enough child
that she always thought she had.
But that's all I'm putting in my mouth,
I swear.
I keep the door to the pantry shut,
and I've learned to do the same with my lips,
even though that thing beneath my rib cage
that the cat scratched up too much
is fighting for a chance
to let my true feelings out.
Her parental guidance is a catalyst
to everything I told the therapist
who sits behind a desk
behind my eyes.
You're too young to love.
You're too fat to be anorexic.
You're too happy to be depressed.
No.
I am a girl,
in love with a man
that ***** every ounce of daydreams
from my body without touching a fingertip.
He leaves venom in my skin
that I mistake for affection,
and he leaves me wanting more;
wanting him to swallow me
like the New York City street rat
that no one even wants to look at,
because maybe then
I'd be able to bring him some satisfaction.
But I do not add nutrition,
I am not needed in his life.
I ask what time dinner is
because I haven't eaten breakfast,
or lunch.
I ask if I can have some more,
but I tell myself no
before the question lifts off my tongue
because I know my mother well.
I know that size 6 is average,
but who cares about a number like that
when I'm a healthy 20 pounds overweight?
I preach body positivity like a religion
tattooed into my bloodstream,
but even I don't understand the blasphemy.
And isn't it ironic
how the girl in love with the snake
is a hypocrite herself?
A hypocrite who puts on a mask
of Covergirl 110,
and blush in Feeling Pretty,
and black liner,
as if she were enhancing the trainwreck she created.
But sadness can't be cured
by the snap of my fingers,
by the pink gloss on my lips,
by the red dress in size 2,
by the galactic twinkle in his eyes,
or the parallel universes created by his smile.
So I'm sorry mom,
that it's not enough,
that I'm not enough
for you.

I lay my feelings down like a tablecloth;
it sits between our still bodies,
and his fingers grasp at the edges -
twisting, twirling, and innocently tearing bits away.

And yes, he acts like a child,
but he is older, and wiser, and blissfully
unattractive to my age’s everyday gaze -
I am undoubtedly blinded.

He clears his throat to speak,
but he remains silent
while I remain in a whirlwind daydream,
worrying too often about reading between his unspoken lines.

His eyes, a stormy blue haze,
but all I see is the sun;
the entirety of my vision  in awe,
enchanted by a rainbow.

He smiles,
only half of his top teeth showing,
with warmth that shades my cheeks
and beckons me to mirror his dimpled features.

The overflowing effort
he puts into making me laugh
makes me realize how easy it is
to fall for him.

And there’s something captivating
about the way he giggles
when he steals popcorn,
the way his hand softly brushes my skin when he places a sticky note on my forehead.

The freckles on his arms,
like raindrops on the sidewalk
outside my window;
the flowers in my garden grow with their nourishment.

And for every imperfect label society slaps on his untucked shirt,
I find another reason to love him.

Alcohol tastes like watermelons
and it reminds me of the sweetness
coated upon your lips.
Nothing left but a cold tile floor,
memories put under the spotlight
induced by a glass or two or three
of strawberry daiquiri
that bring the breeze back to me.

The feeling of the wind
cascading through the rolled down windows
of your '08 Honda,
and the goosebumps on my legs
that you smooth over like bubble wrap.
Your hand is warm,
a little clammy as the temperature hits 75
and your lead foot pushes 95.
You're wearing aviators and a white shirt,
2 buttons closed, 3 following an Open Door Policy —
the color matches my porcelain skin,
and The Temptations sing
the closest thing we'll ever have to
a first dance.
My fingers waltz around your palm,
the only parts of our bodies
following the reckless pursuit
of our minds.
My love for you just grows and grows
You smirk and set free the adorable school boy laugh I fell in love with;
you look over at me,
but I can't focus on your singing voice —
oh-so-beautiful to my ears,
but oh-so-lacking in talent.
This —
wow.
This, is the first time you've ever
told me you loved me.

My hair doesn't get kisses from the wind
when I feel trapped inside.
The fruit isn't as sweet as your charm.
The wine isn't as deep as your grey blue eyes.
The adventure to the bottom of glasses,
the bottom of bottles,
isn't as captivating
as getting lost with you.

I don't know what it means to be a good person anymore.

It was easier when my head was full of pigtails
instead of politics,
when good was opening doors
and doing your chores.
When it was easier to pick out the bad.

Children are gifted with innocence
and a diagram shaded with generalizations
that their parents hold as truths.
Mine shaded family members green,
male strangers red.
Mine shaded police officers green,
black people pink -
a whisper of bigotry, a silent justification.
Mine shaded teachers green,
playground bullies red.
But when innocence fades,
colors mix
and saturations grow stronger.

My grandma tells me that she wishes she could think like me
because she grew up
in a world without rainbows,
where white was good,
and everything else was bad.
But I don't know what good is
when all I see is gray.
It's not a generalization or a stereotype.
I'm not whining because I countlessly fail at using my privileges to help people,
I'm shouting
because I've been beaten down with criticism
for trying to be what I thought was
good.
My vision has been fogged with fear,
and whatever shade of green that trust used to be
is bleeding burgundy.
*What the hell does it mean to be a good person?

When you meet him down the hall
After three months of being 1000 miles away
There will be no candlelit dinner,
No couch bought after searching for hours on a Saturday afternoon
Meant only to spend Sunday evenings on it snuggling.

You will not have a first dance,
A first child together,
A first anything.
He will not call you “his girl,”
Or tell you that he loves you.

You will not tell him that you love him either
Because you know it’s crazy to tell
A married man you’re hopelessly in love with him and everything about him -
To expect
Him to drop his wife and everything he is doing,
To drop to his knees and propose to you with a plastic ring
Because he knows you’re cheap and he hates jewelry.
It’s crazy to think that he will hold your face in his soft palms
And allow his lips to press against yours,
To mimic all the passion in your heartbeats that call his name.

He will not touch more than your shoulder.
It will mean nothing.
He will smile at you,
Not because you are you,
But because you might have said something funny -
People smile over more than love and coffee
And you’ll never spend lunch with him in a downtown café, anyways.

It won’t be because you prefer strawberry tea,
It will be because he prefers another woman’s presence over any gift you could’ve given him.
You will be kind to the woman he chose instead,
Because, like her husband, she is clueless
To the thoughts that keep you up at night,
Talking to your pillowcase about blue orchids and a gold band he will probably lose.

He will never know that he is the ex
That solves the equation
Of your happily ever after.

You're an hors d'oeuvre
but I'm hungry for
the main course.

It’s April,
And I am the fool.
It’s Tax Day,
And I've made my mark as “single.”
It’s Earth Day,
And you'll never give me a bouquet, so just pick me a flower.
It’s Duke Ellington Day,
And you like jazz music as much as you like when I call you my King, so why am I still waiting in line for the throne?
--------------------
It's Spring,
And I am in love.

Heels higher than her
blood-alcohol level
Gaze further than the years between herself
And a man across the bar without a name
Let the tabs roll up
With his satin blue sleeves
Friday's pay checks wasted
Spent like the law clerks in the red leather corner booth
Cigar smoke coats the curls around her ears,
Camouflages itself in the shadows upon his aging hairline
Her shawl is coated with sequins and musk
And his hands beg to add a third layer
The paler man beside him marries thick glass to wood
He slurs out round five
The air tastes like ***** and vanilla ice cream
Her ruby lips the cherry on top
The hangover hits harder
When his head hits the pillow
His cloudy azure eyes open
And the daydream mistress becomes a fog

It comes on an Autumn breeze
during a morning in Spring
where the Buds have begun to open—
covered in Dew.

It floats from the brown Cardinal
as a whispered Melody—
Bees respond with a low hum—
echoed by a Snore.

It touches notes of Candy stores
and Wraps itself around lavender bed sheets—
It smells like Summer
but sounds like Sweetheart.

It is smooth like Jazz and Rose petals—
It tastes like Espresso
after a night of cheap Wine and Cotton tablecloths—
after a day of Coastal conversations.

It curls toes
and moves Fingers like tumbleweed
from Sun-kissed freckle to sunken Wrinkle—
It spells out Forever and never lies—

I'm jealous of your pen.
Jealous of the way your hands will never caress my skin like you hold it.
Jealous of the way you won't ever twirl me on a wooden dance floor like you spin it.

I'm jealous of your tie.
Jealous of the way it wraps around your neck, a place my arms will never be.
Jealous of how nothing separates it from your skin except a shirt, but I have red tape cuffing my hands behind my back when I want nothing more than to let them roam beneath the collar of your blue-striped button down.

I'm jealous of your ears.
Jealous of the words they get to hear when mine aren't around to listen.
Jealous of the way they get to hear i love you spill over and over again from your pillowy lips, the same lips that form into a smirk after you tell a joke and make me feel like the most important person in the world.

I'm jealous of the way you make me feel.
Jealous, because, I'll never make you feel that way, too.

I woke up wanting your arms around me.

I put my contacts in,
brushed my teeth,
and looked into the mirror
wanting to catch your loving glance.

I poured coffee in a souvenir mug,
mixed vanilla cream and sugar,
and forgot I hated coffee
wanting you to kiss me as you took the mug.

I placed clothes on my tired body,
a barrette in my curled hair,
and blush on my cheeks
wanting to feel them get warmer when you smiled.

I drove to work,
hit every red light,
and listened to the radio
wanting to hear you sing the words wrong.

I waited for your call at 8:10,
for you to tell me you love me,
for our Wednesday lunch date
wanting for this to just be a nightmare.

I walked into an empty house,
your jacket hung on the staircase railing,
a ***** sock without a match in the laundry basket,
and the bed unmade
wanting to find you under the comforter.

I go to bed wanting your arms around me.

It's 12:03am on a Tuesday morning
And all I can think about
Is what it would be like,
If I were Marilyn Monroe,
And you were JFK.
If we were closeted lovers,
Or one-time pleasure seekers.
If you were a *******;
If I were a *** symbol.
If we could be anything more than
Friends.
Acquaintances.
Strangers...
It's 12:07am and you're probably sleeping,
Arms wrapped around your Jackie O.
And I know I keep saying
I don't need you,
But this ceiling fan is ****** company,
And ****, do I want you.

What we miss most is the
What could've beens.
We miss the late nights,
The vacations,
The soft touches -
We miss the bended knees and diamonds,
The names of children whose histories have yet to be written
We miss the histories we wanted to write but never found the right notebooks to scribble in -
We miss the bouquets,
The stolen glances.
The glasses of wine,
The memories that are somewhere between fog on the Golden Gate Bridge
And daydreams in Central Park.
We miss what was,
But more than anything,
We miss the happily ever after
that never began.

You're hearing, but that does not mean you are listening.
You're seeing, but that does not mean you are watching.
You're smiling, but that does not mean you are happy.
You're nodding, but that does not mean you are agreeing.
I hang on every word as it drips from the upturned corners of your dark pink lips. I drink them in as if they were a necessity to my existence. My eyes follow your every move in front of me, from the porcupine spikes on your freshly cut hair to the dress shoes you don't like to wear. I know the placement of every freckle on your arms because I've counted the abundance of constellations on your skin a thousand times with my boring brown eyes. The biggest grin comes across my face when I even think of you and the purest form of happiness shines off of my almost white teeth. Every corner, every crevice of my smile bubbles over with gratitude for somehow ending up living in the same world as you, getting to see you every day in my passions and in my mind, having the privilege to know you. I have held my own thoughts but changed their appearance in every way to get an ounce of approval, the slightest hint at a possibility that I might be doing something right while I stand in the chaotic storm that your life is sometimes. And you taught me about perspectives, we've spent weeks on the lesson, yet you still can't see that my everything reflects what's best for you. You still don't understand that I love you.
You're flirting, but that does not mean you love me, too.

I’m intoxicated with dreams of you,
drunk on the idea of your hands on my body.
the fantasy places you in a seat,
my back to you.
you’ve already got a lover,
but I could replace the way you love her.
we are not alone,
but we are silent.
your hands slowly cascade like smoke;
they wrap around my waist.
nothing they do is ******,
but the tension lies beneath your palms,
where my heart beats only for
your love.

Promise to kiss me
like Prince Charming.
And when the shoe doesn't fit,
Promise to love me like ******.
And I'll Promise to sweep
up the ashes
when the oceanic Heaven in your eyes
is scorched by what could've been.

Promise to keep the urn
of our almost eternal flame
on your mantle.
And when you get lonely,
Promise to spread me
on your bed sheets.
And I'll Promise to
rise
from the cinders
to make your heart flutter
the way it did when
you first Promised to love me.

I don't have the right to be jealous.
I don't have the right to make you smile.
I don't have the right to think about you,
and I **** well shouldn't speak your name.
I don't have the right to laugh at your smirk.
I don't have the right to be happy.
I don't have the right to stand next to you,
and I **** well shouldn't want to call your arms home.
I don't have the right to share music tastes.
I don't have the right to accidentally wear matching colors.
I don't have the right to hold your hand,
and I **** well shouldn't cherish the moments when your freckled skin touches mine.
I don't have the right to be yours.
I don't have the right to call you mine.
I don't  have the right to feel my heart ignite in passions,
and I **** well shouldn't imagine you feel the same.

I keep looking
out the ***** window
into my dark reflection
beyond the clouded stars.
Looking for answers,
and finding myself thinking more,
the wheels turning
until they’re nothing but burnt rubber.
Metaphors replace scents of DMT
and my mind runs on ecstasy,
but all I can imagine
are ships passing each other at midnight.
I want to turn the wheel and
crash
into your body, my solace.
But I don’t want to wreck what we have.
I can’t help but wonder
if this plane would drown in the ocean
beneath our unsuspecting minds,
would we be reincarnated
into soulmates
who travel in an RV
because we were born afraid to fly?
Even if we can’t afford the trip,
I’ve read your horoscope 1000 times
and the signs say that you can give me
adventure.
And this is more than ****** attraction,
it's wanderlust.
so please,
run away with me.

You take
everything,
everything that was mine,
everything that you pretended was yours,
everything except responsibility for yourself.

When I was younger,
my mother would sing
you are my sunshine,
and I knew she loved me.

When I was older,
my pap whistled to my gram
I've got sunshine on a cloudy day,
and I knew he loved her.

Now I'm grown,
and I tell you every morning
I'm a ray of sunshine,
hoping that maybe you'll love me, too.

Take me to the City that Never Sleeps
so we can spend all night
mingling with the mattress
and making friends with bedsheets.

Take me to the Big Apple
so we can make a fruit salad with our lips,
because mine taste like strawberries,
and yours probably taste like the Garden of Eden.

Take me to Empire City
and I'll be your Cookie
if you feel like your sweet tooth
is craving more than the forbidden fruit.

Take me to the Melting ***,
even though we're the whitest people I know,
teach me through the timelines of other cultures
and I'll teach your hand to trace pathways to more than my heart.

Take me to the Capital of the World
so we can stand at its highest point
to watch couples pass on the streets below
and know that's what we'll never be.

Take me to New York City,
because if this is just ***
let's make it an adventure
that playwrights on Broadway would applaud.

A young woman stands on the corner of the street.
She leans slightly to the left,
and wholly places her body against the brick wall.
An unlit cigarette is caressed beneath her gloved hands.
Snow falls and brushes itself against her black boots
as if it were a cat asking to be scratched behind the ear.
Her warm breath conceives a chilled cloud of smoke with the frigid air.
A man walks from behind her right shoulder.
He holds a collection of daisies and moves slowly.
His oxfords progress as if they are reaching a bus stop.
His black coat reaches his knees and matches the young woman's -
it fits tighter on her.
He places a hand in his pocket,
removes a sterling silver lighter,
and places it in the palm of her hand.
He rests his freezing fingers inside her embrace -
the leather feels like his armchair at home -
his only escape from anything other than solitude.
The young woman smiles,
lights her cigarette,
and allows the nicotine to coat the inside of her body.
A red lipstick shaded deeper by violets
stains itself on the cigarette.
The man holds his hand open and aloof.
The young woman dances her thin fingers around his stout ones.
The cigarette finds its new home.
The young woman smiles.
The man walks away,
carrying her bouquet.

A melting snowflake
hopelessly enamored by a summer rain -
a blind shot that I’m in love.
But what if I’m playing Russian roulette without a bullet?

My eyes have made enough lunch dates with the ground for marriage.
My hands have caressed a pen
trying to capture the aesthetic of her name on a blank page
because releasing “hello” is too much of a struggle against my tongue’s heart.

I live my life through passing fogs
cleared only by hearing “beautiful”
tumble off her pink, cracked lips.
I’m only beautiful when she needs me.

Her rejection fades in disparaging comparison
to her absence of words.
No is an answer.
Silence is Anxiety’s lover.

And coffee has never been my cup of tea,
but if she were willing to invite me,
I would drink a ***
to listen to her talk about Shakespeare as if they lived in the same time.

I want nothing more than to trace the soft wrinkles on the backs of her hands
the way my finger yearns to chase raindrops across a splintered windshield.
My mind is a vagabond that wanders through memories I have never experienced
and wonders if she would open her umbrella to me when the clouds weep.

She is everybody’s normal, but
she is my perfection.

Today is about missing you.
Yesterday was about myself,
and Tomorrow it will be my turn
once again.
But no one can replace you
on my calendar of absentminded thoughts
because if the day after Tomorrow
you said you would leave the one
you're tied to,
I would knit you a sweater from the knots
you entwined in my heart.
It will be winter when you leave her,
but I will be building a fire -
and for the days after that Tomorrow,
I'll like you in that sweater
but I'd love keep you warm.

i want You to give back what You took,
but You need it more.

You keep it in the top drawer,
right side of Your desk.
And i'm sure some of it is in a folder You gave me,
wedged in the filing cabinet between calculations and words i don't remember saying.

But you listen,
so You know more than i should have ever poured out.
my mouth is a stream
and You continue to row towards the falls.

You put your feet up and sing
a change is gonna come,
and i'm standing in front of You.
But Your eyes are *shut.