there is no longer
anything left
of me
for me to write
about you

because it involves
the cracking of
my bones
, splintered,
after midnight

and blood
red and angry
spilling from
my fingertips
onto the sky

typical nights in cities
of chrome and neon lighting
crowds of people
uninterested glances --
crude conversations
between boys with impish grins
and hollow girls
the words – “let me buy you
a drink”
eagerly going through
the motions
despite the implication of
sweaty palms, open mouths
awkward fumbling
in the dark
an empty bed
on a saturday morning

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 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 have no idea
how much you had meant to me
how I thought of you
like you hung up the stars
in the sky
each night
how I thought
it would be still you and i
in the end
as if that was ever the case

you have no idea
how much of myself
i lost in you
had no idea
what was at stake
how my eyes wandered over
to where you were
in any room
you have no idea
what I felt for you,
long-gone,
you should know

and maybe someday
when you’re over  it
you could find the time to
smile, maybe even
say hi
and maybe someday
when I feel like it
i could find the time to
say hi and
introduce you to a boy
who means to me
more than the stars
hung up in the sky
each night

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

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

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

There once was a girl
Whose laugh
Indelible
Brightens up
The whole room

There once was a girl
Always seemingly
Detached
Larger than life
They say

There once was girl
Even on the days
She does not
Smile
Beautiful, they say

There once was a girl
Who goes for weeks
Sometimes
Without speaking
Tired, she says

There once was a girl
In class staring out
The window
I don’t know her
I don’t know her

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

let’s not pretend
that nothing was ever
between us
it gets a bit
old, sometimes

i know
you’re never as busy
as you make yourself
out to be
i should know

honestly –
does it make
a difference
whether we pretend
the other
exists?

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