These are the moments when I marvel
at the way darkness reinvents itself
in shadows that move with moonlight
across these walls.  In this gentle hum
of white noise the promises of dreams
unravel in a ribbon of whispered syllables,
and with eyes straining toward forever
I can see the contrast between what I am
and what I could be beyond the stillness
of this room.  There are questions marks
that hang in the margins - their plea:
Let me be something more than what I am
in these hollow hours filled with not knowing
what I am waiting for.  Let me grow
into this heart and everything it holds inside.

the last night we went out
you brought me white daisies.
they reminded me of when we met.
i left them on the counter,
and followed you to the car.
we came home- straight to my bedroom.
the next morning i tiptoed to the kitchen,
looking for you,
but instead i found the daisies all wilted and brown.
i thought you had the Midas touch of love,
but like the daisies,
i was dead the second you touched me.
*i wouldn't change a thing.

when I think of you
I think of your eyes and the way you spooned me when you thought I was sleeping
I think of cinnamon whiskey and the time we stumbled home in the snow
I think of the bones by your hips and my hands tracing the freckles on your chest
I think of your space-heater skin and the sound of your laugh
and sometimes when I think of you
it's like I can't think at all
as if I'm too caught up in you to think straight

The doctor closed the fist-shaped hole
Of your absence,
With little black knots,
"Come back in six months;
We'll check up on you"
I'm sitting on the table,
But there is no doctor.
There is me and there is you.
You're whispering
Sweet nothings into my ear,
And tearing my stitches out,
One by one.
I can see the hole again-
"Code Blue"
Only it's not blue,
Your eyes are green.
And I when I wake up later,
You're back.
I try to talk, but you interrupt-
you tell me I'm pretty.
"Begin compressions"
Blood is everywhere.
Months pass.
You are lying in bed next to me;
You kiss me on the mouth.
"Charge to 300"
You are gone.
Please don't come back.

Your fingertips wandered
The forests of my skin,
for a year, three months and one week.

Your kisses lingered around my neck,
Pearls strung delicately across a haphazard creation.
Your thumbprints were inked across my ribcage,
Polka dots on my least favorite sweater.
Your fingers mined gems from the ridges of my hipbones,
Diamonds found within the depths of my self-loathing.
Your lips planted daisies the crooks of my collarbones,  
Black-holes of misery turned into a rainbow of gardens.

I have not felt your embrace
Or heard your voice,
In a year, eleven months, a week and four days.

The pearls have been replaced
With the noose of your bitterness.
Your thumbprints have become plum-colored bruises,
Diamonds have turned to coal,
And, like a fool,
I mistook daisies for venus fly traps-
They catch every thought of you,
And I'm now I'm closed in.

Words are harmless, so they say,
That's where the problem starts;
Sticks and stones
May break our bones
But words will break our hearts.



Words are harmless, so they say,
And point you to their charts;
It's harmless fun,
No damage done.
But... Who will mend our hearts?



The x-rays show no damage
Where words have scathed across,
But it still feels hard to manage,
And leaves you at a loss.



Words are harmless, don't complain,
That's where the problem starts.
It's quite absurd-
A single word-
Enough to break our hearts!



But words are harmless, they maintain;
The subject of their parts,
No less or more,
So let them pour
From all our broken hearts

dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.