“christina”
“teacher?”
“marina"
“anna”. twice.
i’ve only noticed your eyes today.
i’ve worn them for a year.
how interchangeable we are. how replaceable.
maybe if I began to wear
a purple hat or something
people would remember.

Of who you are
And what I am
And who we might become

You only tell the moon
When she is full
That she's herself again

but discard hope,
all ye who
fail to see the grace
In underfinished crescents

In half thought poems
In broken plates
in streets with shattered concrete,

in ashes after flames
in charcoaled cakes

In half built building cities
and teary tissues on the floor

It’s April, and I
have everyone fooled,

that my passion is gone,
the fire has cooled

that my eyes don’t expand,
when see you around

that my thoughts stay intact
when you’re there.

that my mouth says its words
not for you anymore,

and my heart as gone back
to its beat from before.

that I’m angry at you,
but i don’t know for what

that I’m more independent,
and happier,
but-

the new “him” in my poems
doesn’t shatter my ground

I’ve forgotten the meaning
of how to astound-

of how to surprise,
or be fearful of loss

of the things that are mine
and the things that you toss

but everything's fine
and you’re nothing divine

and it’s april,
and I am a fool

The fake said to the phony,
"I'm hip to your jive and the smell of bologna,"

Meanwhile, homegirl still pronounces the L in salmon.

Somedays are deep fried and pan seared to perfection.
This is not one of them.

The bonafide bonerless guy cried aloud that he wished he would die,
so we took him out for ice cream.

To us.
We are born, we strive to live.
We live, we strive to learn.
We learn, we strive to improve.
We improve, we strive to stretch.
We stretch, we strive to strengthen.
We strengthen, we stand to fight.
We fight, we try to fix.
We… can't fix, we strive to keep.
We lose, we refuse to weep.
We weep, we strive to heal.
We heal, we strive to live.
We live, we discover love.
We love, we strive not to bend.
We bend, we don’t want to break.
We break, we strive to mend.
We mend… and we do it all over again.

(he seemed happier,
i swear,
when i wasn’t there)

and the wedge between our friendship
will never really leave
and the One Who Invited Himself
will tell his friends that i’m a *****
make a life lesson out of me
to his children
foolish boy

don’t you know your love is waiting for you
and that sometimes nothing can be said
or done
and that love can’t be forced
or, in a way that makes sense,
talked about ?

When you look in to my eyes,
Do you see windows,
Or do you see black paint,  mascara,  eyeliner?

And if you see mascara, can you tell how much it cost?
or how many times I put it on, and washed it off before deciding it was good enough?
and redrew the wing of my eyeliner so at least something would look sharp tonight?
and how long I spent debating whether you like girls who wear makeup or not,
and if you would make out my hesitations through the clumps?

And if you see windows, tell me, what do you see through them?
Do you see my thoughts and ideas?
Can you see the garden I planted for you through them?
or did the last person who looked through my windows leave too many mascara streaks?
Or maybe you just see the empty widow frames, and want to install your own glass in them?

Of course,  if you ever looked at my eyes you would know, but you only see in colour when you scroll though my Instagram page trying to decode whether my caption is about you or not, and whether that other girl looks better without makeup than me?
I’d have to agree with you. Mascara is easier to spot when the filter is on high saturation.

If only windows worked like that.