when it comes
to art
I always find myself
gravitating
to the *****,
the make-shift,
and the
simple

art,
I think,
should
be about life
not about
“high”
life

that is why I read Bukowski
and admire street art
and lawn art made of
corrugated metal
and adorn my walls
with miss-matched posters
and write about things
I do instead of about
things that mean
anything

art,
I think,
shouldn’t need
to be explained

so when it comes
to art,
I always find myself
seeming quite pretentious
in an untraditional
way

the way in which a teenager
scorns main-steam music

the way art critics ostracize
their ex-lover’s work

the way I refuse to write sonnets
and write about cereal instead

I wish I could stare down every girl,
and tell her that she is beautiful.
Tell her how she matters,
simply because she is here and she is alive.

I wish I could take away all her insecurity.
Because I've been there, through the darkness.
I've seen the pain, and hunger, and shame.
I would tell her that no matter how hard she tries,
no matter how much she starves herself,
the demons, they won't go away.

Because demons, they have a funny way of hiding.
Right there, inside that darkness.
No amount of purging will set them free.
No amount of blood shed will leak them out.
Demons hide in the darkness because there,
there they have power.

I wish I could shine a light,
for every girl who's ever struggled.
Because I know how hard it is to shine that light for yourself.
I would tell her that her demons, no matter how big,
are only shadows.
And shadows are always conquered by light.

I wish I could make girls see their beauty.
The beauty the world claims they don't have.
The beauty that demons,
brought on by magazine and commercial ads,
try to bury and hide.

I would tell them, every single girl,
that they are here, and they matter,
not because they are beautiful.
But that they are beautiful,
because they are here, and they matter.

the dirt’s turned up, the body’s gone
and the makeshift cross is snapped in two
maybe you should’ve dug the hole a bit deeper
maybe you should’ve made it work

now everything is plastic-wrapped and vacuum-sealed
and all you can smell is germ-x and cheap soap
but it’s better than her perfume
you burned her clothes and lingerie in your backyard
along with her favorite books you didn’t read
— she never asked for anything to be returned

you forgot about her for a while
the words of her eulogy gave you closure
“it’s over”
entwined with clichés and *******
that fertilized your daffodils —
the flowers of new beginnings

but then you saw her corpse
reanimated with Another on her arm
and the laughter that plays in your head
when you can’t sleep at night
spilled from her undead lips

her memory flooded your mind
and gnawed your brain
as you returned to her upturned grave
delirious in a sleepwalk daze
plucking petals from a daffodil

I climbed up your arms and had a fight in your collar bones
because I wanted to taste what you thought of me.

So, when I wake you up don't be mad
because I wanna feel your breath on me,
your smile against my face,
contagious
and in that moment I feel I'm growing again
instead of dying.
And can you please, please
be at least half of what I think you are
instead of me being me
and wrong.

Don't be mad when I put the crown on you,
I wanna see if it fits
and if it sits right, or at all
I'm fine.

I used to think it exquisite.
Some beautiful power
weaving expert, impeccable knots.

But precision does    not
   come so
                    easily
undone.

No.  Only a mirage
of strength.  
Tenuous,
     fragile,
w a v e r i n g
at the slightest threat of indifference.

Find an anchor, then.
Wind it tightly
aroundandaround,
overandunder itself.
Let us grab hold
til our fingers go numb.

It cannot go slack.
                            Don't slip.
                            Please
                 don't let go
before I find my way
back

to you.