There are some things that
I’ll never understand
like why I engraved “F A D E”
into my upper left forearm
and trace over the uneven markings
a little too fondly sometimes.
I didn’t mean for it to be funny,
and I didn’t mean for it
to actually mean something
But it did.
Because scars don’t always fade,
and I wanted the ones left on my heart to
and I wanted the ones left on my arms to
remind me —
that life will hurt you
but life will heal you
and when it does —
Let it.
Let it.
Let it.

I am a lighthouse
       or so I’ve been told
where few ships have sailed
in to find guidance.

I have been waiting
for a vessel to see my light
for a captain to come to shore
for the tides to wash up
        something more than
        a seashell
        a jellyfish
        an empty bottle
                with love letters drenched
                in tears and seawater
                (I couldn’t tell the difference)

I am a lighthouse
Please remember me
in the storm
and on cloudless nights
       when all the stars are
       irresistible in their glory
Remember me
as the place you come home to
Where you can let yourself in
(feel free to put your feet up)
and lay your head back
and let out a sigh that won’t
        be whipped away by ocean-saturated air

I am a lighthouse
in the middle of nowhere
Ships have wrecked themselves
on broken boulders that line my body
like a jealous widow, like a marked territory
Few have made it through.
None have ever stayed.
But my lamp is still burning
and my tower stands tall
and I will guide your journey,
        even if it means pointing over there
        when all I want is for you to stay here.

I come home each night,
And inhale and suffocate into the fragrance that is you.
Breathing in the residual, yet powerful and attracting aroma,
Upon the correspondence you sent,
An almost invisible heart,
Scribed in your perfume,
Distorting the paper and rushing to my head,
'She is like this', I say,
An association is established,
And expectations reign,
Catching a wanted and needed breath,
A sorta kiss from far-away,
It exudes a deep rich pungency,
That is alive and not manufactured.
It alivens me with hope,
That awaits your presence,
So I can, at last, breathe you in completely.

My lovely girl
Velohomme
Behind that mask of yours
are you really that person who
writes to cut
" chop chop chop"
are you really that girl who sheds tears at night?
and sleep open-eyed

When I see you
I sense a spark of inspiration in me
to be a better person
But behind that mask of yours...

I don't know anything anymore velohomme
You were someone I 've always wanted to be
The girl full of smiles
Odd jokes
And
Laughter
but in your poems that
you
authored
You don't seem
to be that girl I've known all along
You seem to be a girl
Who sheds her tears in the dark
Let the blood pour out of her open wounds
Worry about the problems that I've never
Imagined that you had

You seem
To
Be
Confused
With your own emotions

You don't seem to know why you are happy
or why you are
sad
You sit in that corner of the classroom
Sleep with a peace that I've never known or seen it
In anyone else
Yet in your poetry
It is filled with
Dark meaning
Blood
Fear
And sheer terror

My lovely girl
Velohomme
Behind that mask of yours
are you really that person?

it was sometime in November
amid caffeine, books,
and fermented spirits
we laid parallel
as the morning sang a hymn
welcoming the new day
the air was between
crisp and warm
you could hear
the crunch of fallen blades
as pupils rush
to their next shift
transfixed in wonder
of who will give in
to the morning
our bodies
navigating  an endless sea
of tangled cloth
trying not to cross
into lands that border our own
even though these exquisite
properties became one
in the dark before last
it was sometime in November
you turned over in graceful play
and smiled
with nervous blinks
that complimented
the lingering sentiment
of autumn

My body is not poetry.
My spine is curled up
into a question mark
from centuries of insecurity
and the weight of the
worlds trapped in my skull.

My thighs are canvases for
atlases, road maps, and
interstate highways that lead to
nowhere. Or everywhere.
They’re big enough for both.

Not when my hands
are the kind that are meant to tremble
not the kind meant to be held.

My hips are not made
for you to skim
your hands over.
They are guideposts:
between (here) and (here)
lies a dreadfully broken girl.

My body is not poetry.
Because it won’t last as long as
dried ink on yellowed, musty pages.
Because it breaks more easily
than the cracked spines
of a beloved, well-read book.
Because it is not something that
soothes the soul and
makes my heart ache all at once.

My body is not poetry.*
Mostly because I’m
just a little afraid
of anybody who would be able
to read me so well
to put me into words.

It is all a little harder
than it looks,
and I'm afraid it will
never work out
—just too different,
you and I--

There is a reason
that the sun and the
moon never touch.
You are just beginning
and I am coming
to a close.

No, you do not want
someone like me.
I am beat up, broken.
Go, find yourself a nice boy
with a plan,
with a trust fund;
someone to rely on.

You don't need
someone like me.
It is much harder
than it looks
and it might very well may
never work out between us.
These open fields are ripe
for the taking,
a pretty little thing like you
could have your pick.

You don't want someone
like me, but that is not easy
to say because all that I want
is you, you, you.
It is not easy at all,
so many trials and
complications,
no, no, no…

It is a little harder than
it looks to love someone.

I'm drunk
You are drunk too
All I wanna do
Is get lost in the eyes that belongs
To you
But you don't look at me
You don't care
So this is why I'm gonna share
I'm sharing this because I don't
Want another person to fall in love
With someones
Eyes
Without knowing their heart
Or their mind
Please don"t fall in love
I'm drunk