here are my little daily deaths:
a careful cut on the wrist,
cigarette burn marks and
scraped knuckles,
leaving messages unread,
losing and forgetting
the importance of things,
the look in my mother’s eyes
right before i start to tear
this body apart
as if it’s some
worn down structure
too shaky to house
anything other than good intentions
(these are careful, practiced things)

the only way to stay present
is to stay up late for sins
i know i’ll regret in the morning
so i practice shrinking to radio static;
fade into the white noise
of school year loneliness.
i practice keeping still,
holding my breath
for hours at a time
before eventually,
still crackling,
i settle back into my skin

he’s gone (on a long walk)
but don’t worry –
any minute now
he will come running
pitter-patter of little paws
                around the corner
                down the street                
                into the house
                and into my arms
and i will say: welcome home puppy, baby, dog
i still have his tiny yellow shoes
and the water bowl
was gathering dust
but i’ve replaced it
for when he gets tired
(and he will get tired)
finding his way back home from
some kind of imaginary heaven
where lost dogs go

you tell yourself "it's okay to be sad"
but you still cry yourself to sleep
every night

your hands still shake

because there's no one there to hold them
and you say sadness is a cliche
that everyone feels is unique to them
but that's the thing -
nobody wants to deal
with tired hearts
and shaking hands
at three in the morning

the world does not drop dead
when you do

you don’t need to tell me you don’t love me
for me to know
you were never the fairy tale
i’d made you out to be

and I don’t need to hear
about me versus the princess you’ve always wanted
when it’s a story i know
by heart

once you said
you liked the fire
in her eyes
and the way her hair
shines golden
like in the movies
thought it was
beautiful

so i tried to make myself
a little less
made of glass
and a little more
of gold
doused myself
in gasoline
thought it would
make me beautiful
but all i did was
burn

i would write you
a love letter
but i don’t know how
maybe i could start
with something cliché,
like ‘Dear you,’
and then I’d talk about
how your eyes gather sunlight
in the day
and shine golden
at night
but i was never
good with words

or maybe i could make you
a mixtape
and leave it
on your front door
there aren’t enough songs
about tuesday afternoons
and cuddles on the
kitchen floor
to get things
off the ground

so let me write you
a poem instead
a poem that rhymes
and the taste of
your strawberry lip gloss
the sound of
your name
but it wouldn’t make sense
anyway,
some are artists
( not me )
and some people
are art themselves
and my favorite poem
is you

you’d think from a girl
so easy to say
“it’s going to be alright”
that’s she’d be
less faded

and that her eyes
so used to smiling
could never have been
empty

so who would’ve thought?
that she’d hang herself
in the inky blackness
that covers the sky
when everyone else
was asleep?

who would’ve thought