It’s the telemarketer’s day off
he often calls customer service on the weekends as a hobby
he feels like a loaded rifle when they ask
“what can I help you with today?”
a jitterbug with a contemplative stutter
the jilted staleness of his apartment is suddenly
a garden of words
images of violence appear while he rips a hangnail
loneliness is a grown man’s burden, he thinks
“I don’t want you to listen but I do need to be heard”
he waits for silence and he’s spoon fed this attention
“I work with people and yet I do not know people
my mind waters for intimacy not in the sensual term of the word but in the
way hands accidentally touch on a crowded train”
2,000 miles away there is a woman with a headset
a chronic consoler at the tender age of 19
her hand trembles as she hears this man speak
she’s reminded of her grandmother dying in her tiny home
back in Kansas City, desolate like her location

the champagne tastes bitter
my head swims and I think
maybe I need a bathing suit

maybe i'll never see god but the
breeze keeps touching my face
and the insects **** my blood
disease my legs and that's okay
because there's a part in me that has difficulty taking my watch off and there's a part in him that has difficulty taking his shoes off
despite the harmony I feel there's a head in the back of my own
that tells me that solitude would not suffice for such a shy creature that only wants warmth from another
there, there
there

I drink pink grapefruit flavored drinks
my face smells like the citrus
when I lose things and people
I change my hair
it helps me cope with the idea that I can never finish a stick of lip balm and most of the people I've known only yield disappointment
no one is at fault here
but the blame is usually pushed into my intestines
and I spend five days throwing up
I used to be afraid that I would never see the entire world
now I'm afraid I'll never spend enough time in a place I can call home
every morning the smell of grapefruit grows stronger

how to steal a soul:

blow three kisses to the mailman
two to the dean of admissions
and one to yourself
because you'll always be queen
of your own heart

three days later
drown yourself in sugar,
the hooves of lovesick pigs,
and the chipped tooths
of the bodies from
one-way-loves past

hug your cats goodbye
remember to turn off the heater
(it's hot enough inside you)
don't forget a brain-melting
smile

and jump

my writing class is above the pharmacy.
an old elevator
still rising
when the doors open.

nothing poetic happened to me today
so why am i here

there are very few things that are so beautiful they hurt
swimming in the rain.
dancing in the dark.
you.

I remember when I sat at that bar,
Thoughts in my head colliding like car crashes-
I was in the process of emptying my bones and my wallet-
I just got paid that morning.
I was already floating on the stool,
But it wasn't enough
Because you were still crossing streets in my mind
Picking at the last garden on the corner of the crashes
Calendulas and canna lilies
Lightly decorating my frontal lobe-
I wanted you gone.

Later that night,
I went back home
To my haunting four walls
Lines of poetry on the knives
Ready to jab you like nobody else could
Lines of thrill on the table
Cutting edges of my desolation
Just a cheap trip
To somewhere you aren't

It's easier to not think about you
Because you take too much from me
And give nothing in return.
In my body,
I have nothing.
You took my persona,
And I was so vulnerable
I sold the inner working in my bones for 30% off
And a pack of cigarettes.

I'm only filling voids you created
But I'm running out of sources,
If I leave right now-
If I'm off this earth in the morning,
What would you do with the parts you took?

I’m not much of a talker anymore.
I don’t hold conversations‒
I dislike the discomfort of hearing
My own voice dilute empty rooms
And reminding me I’m powerless
I’m not much of a talker anymore.
It’s 2017, and I‒
I mean we‒
Still don’t have the power to speak for ourselves.
Rather us,
We fold the laundry
While they ruin‒
I mean run‒
The world.
In my household,
My mouth was sewn shut
Before I learned to use it as a weapon.
And while my throat aches for the power to speak‒
My tired feet pleading for a break from the walk of shame.
I‒
I mean we‒
Are tired of speaking
Only to remain unheard.

“I remember the night,” he spoke in a low tone, “you had called me crying.”
I shifted around in bed, and turned over to face him. The streetlight shining through the window casted a faint orange outline on his face.
“Why was I crying?” I asked. I laid my head on his chest as I listened for his voice. I could recall the amount of alcohol I had that night, but I couldn’t remember the call. He wrapped his arm around my bare torso and pulled me closer to him.
“You were drunk. I asked what was the matter, and you said,” he inhaled deeply, “you said you were afraid. And when I asked why, you said because you were falling in love with me.”

I cannot say I don't miss you  
in hushed tones of violet  
I cannot say I don't miss your  
rapid hands that wrapped  
around my fragile neck  
I cannot say I don't miss  
Your yellow mark bruises  
That washed against my skin
I cannot say I don't miss the  
violence that escaped your mouth
and found your way to your fists  
that brushed against my skin
on my legs, on my arms
on my face it found its place
Everywhere on my fragile body
that consisted of the words  
“she belongs to me”
I do not miss the hits that  
found their way to my once  
Unscratched face  
but somehow, I let you into  
my fragile life and you made  
a bruise out of me