once bitten twice shy,
and now i hold no illusions why
the planet comes to love
as much as is taken by;
and the dawn surmises
but burns and rots,
and the tree begets
unthinking thought—
yet here i stand,
again that ***
that called the kettle
black.

i'm walking on asphalt dreams
and ratty sneakers, and
padding by, a cat—

they say stray cats are fake wild.
i say, do you not see
the taunt in its eyes,

fairy lights unstrung singing
under starry lampposts,
the streak of sinew bunching

pulling me forward the way
the urban sky draws clean
wiped of any scars?

and i have returned to love,
love with its palpitations and
endless trepidations, to love
and for love and by love,
to love for the dove above,
returned to mine heart
that i so cruelly denied,
that left with the passing stars.

It's okay if you never confess,
if you're a statue, a virtue,
a paragon of pragmatism.
Just come to me, and I—
if you will let me—
I will love you
'till the day
we die.

i’m fine,
are words i say to myself
over and over
again.

i’m just tired,
i stress to my friends,
repeating automatically—
on loop.

i’m okay,
i’m alright,
yeah i’m getting sleep—
just a bit tired is all—*

tell me,
when did i become an
automaton, programmed
to lie every time i speak?

mondays are my off days,
tuesdays are my sad days;
on wednesdays i can laugh.

thursdays, though, i'll cry,
and fridays are very tiring;
still, saturdays are wonderful,

but sundays i want to die