hearts don't break
porcleain, glass, bone, spun sugar
all can shatter in a heartbeat
it's so overdramatic to say that hearts can be broken

hearts don't break

instead,  they bruise
like pulverized flesh ran over by 18 wheels
deflated
black and blue
by some lover or another

and when someone tries
to touch
you flinch
your little raw piece of meat within your chest
is just too tender right now

but not broken
broken is forever
bruised is for now

You are not the rain,
not the steady patter tapping on the windowsill at midnight
nor the soft collarbone kisses in the afternoon
nor the haughty torrential downpour, tamed by no one and no thing
you're just a boy.
You're not the rain.

Is it possible to be suffocated
by your own skin?
Trapped
beneath your bones?
Praying for a better life,
yet yours is perfect?


At least I can hide in vivid dreams,
between the notes in music
and behind the confident facade that has fooled so many.
Self loathing is the new black.

'Acting like everything
is okay
when it isn't
creates a certain craziness,'
says Beetle, crouching
on the wooden  slat porch
to pick up half a cigarette.
'Because you are all
survivors,'
she goes on, 'so you
push people away
so they don't find out.'
Find out what,
I ask myself.
Find out me,
is I think the answer.
Because the question
behind the question
as always
is
could you  
love me?

The pessimist thought Death was the answer,
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no
no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,
no, no, no.  Not me. No, no, no, no,
no, no, no," he thought.

The optimist couldn't help but laugh.
"Come on. Let's go outside and run and jump and play".
A sentence so beautiful still ends with a dot.
So let's wait for Death,  just not today.

Today, I thought of you.
Your laugh, your wit.
Your ability to walk into
A room of strangers,
And be the only one
To start a conversation.

Or, maybe-I thought
About how, no matter
The circumstance-
You’re always more
Composed than me.
Or at least,
You’re better at
pretending.

I thought of your passions,
Your opinions, your talents.
Your ability to persevere,
In any situation thrown your way.

Or, maybe-I thought
About how, no matter
The circumstance-
You’re always one step
Ahead of me.
Or at least,
You’re better at pretending.

I thought about a lot
Of things today. But I
Only managed to understand
One. No matter what the
Circumstance-
I will never be like you.

And today, I realized
I never needed to be.

I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.

how long must I walk in the ashes of my yesterday?
charred carbon butterflies dancing past my tired eyes
floating on what could be the last breaths of this tired world
nothing but a fleeting sigh, nothing but a fading whisper.
Ashes.

the endless long lost steps
the creaking weary bones
one foot in front of the other
I walk in Ashes.

I look to the jagged teeth where earth meets the sky
gnashing, grinding, grinning
a sickly cheshire smile far and wide
a newness, a nascence felt inside
the illusion is slowly fading
but yet I still walk in Ashes.

like sepulchral confetti
the blackened ash quietly collects
whispering and licking at my ears
a tragic choir in unison they sing
'one and one have become zero'
in silence I grieve beneath a jet black sky
on my broken knees
never ending Ashes.

will this ever end?
rust covered, abandoned
thoughts like swinging hammers
comforted only by Ashes
that sing me into nightmares
of dying stars and black suns
and nights that have killed the only Dawn I've ever known
will the Ashes ever end?

in all the desolation, in all the dereliction
there is calm, a soothing shudder scrapes my skin
a rising urgency deeply rooted beneath the I
sweetly swaddled
gently graced
blanketed by Ashes.

the roof of the world
sunken, failing - utter frailty
I am no telamon, I have no strength
unable to bear the weight
the weight of all the Ashes.

in this comforting collapse
at the bottom of my oubliette
wings of splintered light emerge
they glow like the light of dying cinders
they glow like your iridescent halo
they glow like the last light I will ever see.