when a boy shows you his hands
bare except for the dust
he’s begging you to look past
take them in yours.
squeeze them once.
twice.
say without speaking
that you understand that the valleys
in his palms were meant to cradle
shooting star wishes
that he’s allowed to still hope for.
when a boy shows you his eyes
of milk and crimson and melanin
a bloodshot vein for every night he can’t sleep
let him shut his eyelids.
say without speaking
that you understand that the black hole pinpricks
of his irises hold more than the universe
should allow.
when a boy shows you his soul
shivering but still working toward friction
iced over but still working toward melting
let him come to rest next to yours.
say without speaking
that you understand that he is lonely
and that his silence speaks volumes
and that you kept his treasure close
because you love him.
when a boy shows you his hands
show him your hands.
when a boy shows you his eyes
show him your eyes.
when a boy shows you his soul
show him that
this is a comfortable place to rest it.
when a boy shows you the hardness that shaped him
show him the softness
that you have in store.

and when you said
laughter is like a foreign language
i imagined that i was
teaching you how to
speak it

i’m typing this
as i’m waiting for you to get back
from the bathroom.
in the starbucks
cozy acoustic music is playing
and your mocha frappucino
half empty
is on the table in front of me.
your lips have touched the lid
and i don’t want to be
that person
but i wonder.
i wonder how it feels
does it know that it’s lucky.
can it tell me its secrets
how does it do that?
get you to open up
and let inside the warmth?
i’m not jealous.
just curious.

you should be back any second now.
you might walk out
back to our cliche little table
and ask me
what i’m doing
what i’m typing so furiously
what i’m so passionate about.
i will want to say you.
i love you
right here right now right time right place
i won’t though

maybe i’ll say
“i forgot to finish this paper
that’s due at 11:59 tonight”
or maybe i’ll say
“i just got an urgent email
about my political science class tomorrow”
or maybe i’ll say
“an old elementary school friend
just sent me a Facebook message
and i need to reply”

or.
or maybe i’ll say
“nothing.
nothing more important than our coffee.”
maybe i’ll just close my laptop
mid-sentence
because it’s true.

nothing is more importa

my mother may not be perfect
but she is brave.
my best friend may not be perfect
but she is brave.
the ones who flinch away from touch may not be perfect
but they are brave.
they are brave without being questioned
in front of millions
they are brave without having their stories torn apart
and dug up
and denied
and perhaps even believed but still pushed aside
so as not to ruin the life
of the man who ruined theirs.
they are brave without an audience.

imagine how brave she must be
to relive her trauma
in every single question and torment and threat
plastered on television screens
and dissected by men who think
their careers carry more weight
than the abuse they have all inflicted before.

dr. ford is brave
and then some.

while the lady in the ballroom
hikes up her sparkly dress
and tosses a drink in the face of her lover
and the prince has his eye on a
slim, red little starlet who tosses
his head back with laughter and cunning
the little mouse darts between their feet
learning more about patience, courage,
and forgiveness than
the owners of the shoes will ever
ever know.

i can fold over the blankets
into triangles or
diamonds
crystals on the windowpane
and the chill chasing its way inside
i can clear the counters and
string up the lights
i can twist on the lamp and
slide between the wall and some comfort
i can curl into my dresser drawers
between the sweaters and
the socks
i can draw the curtains and
drag up the blinds to let the clouds
through the mesh
but still i’m falling victim to
a lackluster melancholia
and i suppose it would be fine
if the silk of the morning
didn’t make a habit of
curling itself around my throat
before i even lift my eyes
to the sun.

either i am very bad
at being human
or i am far
far
too good at it.

my fingers may feel like ice
when i return from winter
but don’t let that fool you into thinking
that i’m frozen.

no, dear
my skin is only cold
because the chill
couldn’t find a way
inside.
i love myself far too much
for that.

when i say
“i want you to come home”
i’m talking to the woman
i was always expected to be

i don’t miss her and
i don’t love her
but she would make it
a little less messy.

i imagine her
beautiful and weary
damaged in the ways
that allow her
to sink down into my soft places
and fill the puzzle-piece gap
someone else left her with.
i imagine her
lovely and flawed
striking a match in my chest
and starting a flame in my belly
a forest fire of disaster
and absolute perfection.
i imagine her
soft and destructive
disassembling me at her worst
caressing me at her best
i imagine her
lonely and strong
a being built from
i-don’t-give-a-damns
and let-me-help-yous
i imagine her
there
quiet and beaming
imagining what i might be like.
i imagine her
thinking i’m the beautiful mess
that i think her to be
i imagine us both being wrong.
i imagine that
being the best part
about it.

there is more than one type of cold.
there’s the cold from that winter wind
it blows through the window
with the hole in it and it sneaks around
the curtains and comes up
through the floor
there’s the cold during the summer
when it’s ninety degrees in the shade
and you turn on the a/c in the car
and it numbs your fingers
and the backs of your arms
there’s the cold when you’re sick
and ten blankets couldn’t reach the chill
that’s made its way inside
and your eyelids feel the fever drifting
there’s the cold that arrives when you’re scared
when you’re nervous
it nestles just under the skin
and you’re losing feeling in your fingers
there is more than one type of cold
but you’re the only one
that ever made me freeze.

i reach a point of ******
and i never realized how sad it was
i never realized that i was actually
crying this whole time.
hidden beneath covers
friends in rooms miles away from mine
we’re all living our lives and making mistakes
but we haven’t been awake for a while now
i’m afraid.
there’s something about the muted twinkle
that brings me back to the soft lights
and the coffee and the microphone
and that first poem that
proved i belonged in a space of melancholy
because being broken is about more
than being an artist nowadays
i usually want to jump inside the paintings
but this one makes me
want to jump out.

you are too good for me
far too much, far to precious
i'm callous and nothing like what i think i am
you are going to do good in this world
and i am just going home.

oddly calm in the face of
a downfall
love is a calamity
and we do love suffering,
don’t we?

at midnight
my hair had been a tangled mess
pulled back in a bun

at one a.m.
it had been a wave atop my head
greasy but beautifully dramatic

at two a.m.
it had been a nuisance, oil at the roots
but i said i looked too pretty to take a shower
(that’s such a funny and sad reason)

at three a.m.
i got the idea to cut it
i said, “i need a change, talk me out of it”
and you tried; thank you for that
but even so

at four a.m.
i cut my hair

and i didn’t feel any different.

i’m tired of not loving you.
i’m tired of the dry
fluorescent lights
illuminating not everything
but almost everything
just enough to make me think
i see it all.
i’m tired of waiting
for the stones i sent skipping
across the water
to come back
i’m tired of sinking with them.
i’m tired of noticing
that snow during spring
is warmer than i am
i’m tired of complaining
and then being scared of
what you think
of my complaining.
i’m tired of stitching puzzle pieces
into patterns that don’t make sense
just so i can ask you about them
i’m tired of trying to hang paintings
on bare white walls and thinking
i’m the problem
when it doesn’t stick.
i’m tired of being overestimated
even when i know
what i’m doing
i’m tired of falling in love
just because you’re kind to me
i’m tired of not loving you
but i’m tired of not loving me more.

"oh baby girl" they say
"oh baby girl
you will continue to be"
oh baby girl am i
am i?
they say to me
"oh baby girl
my goodness aren't you
a lovely young
lady"
but there in my ribcage
not my cargo of skin
no on the inside
i whisper
"oh baby boy
oh baby boy
you will continue to be."

let it take its time.
let it drift down the river
from the top of the mountain
where it was closest to God
let it be touched by the hand
that crafted your soul
only that hand knows exactly
where it will fit.

let it take its time.
let it waft into the room
like the smell of sun-soaked rose petals
and the perfume of the love
you lost but never truly
had in the first place
only that love knows exactly
where it will not fit.

let it take its time.
let it leave the room when you enter
because it is too shy to wave
in fear that it will remind you
of the waves that crashed
against your lonely body
only those waves know exactly
where it will withstand.

let it take its time.
let the blessing tap you on the nose
and then dart away
like a snowflake that does not turn
the lake to ice
the ice that you cracked and fell through
only that lake knows exactly
where it will not withstand.

let it take its time.
and when it arrives
let it in.
greet it like an old friend
even if you have never met.
let it stay.
give it a place in your hand
and hold it to your heart.

let it take its time.
it is on its way.

it’s 7:56.
i’m thinking about you
that’s pretty much what i do these days
think about things like
your laugh
the way you makes me feel
why i’m thinking about you again
things like that.
i think about you talking to me
in another room
away from everyone else.
i think about exactly what you said.
“i really appreciate how easy you are to get along with.”

and that was the moment.
i know
it seems like an odd thing to fall in love with
but so am i.

i think you about so hard
that i feel it in my chest
i dream about you while i’m awake
i think i’ve loved you for years.
it feels like i’ve been yours for decades.

it’s 7:57.

i do this thing
where i build bridges just to
jump off them
but i never build them high enough
to do any damage
so i lay on the ground
wondering why everything hurts
just long enough to
build another bridge

paradise isn’t
a place where the sun
never sets

it’s a place where you watch
the horizon consume
the daylight with content
because you know that the night
can only last
so long.

today is such a day to feel melancholy
the puddles have dried up
but i’m still dreaming across the table
i guess that’s just
what i do.

what do parking lots
and my heart
have in common?

they both feel so much bigger
at five a.m.

no it’s okay
i understand
not everyone can value me
in the same way i value myself.
just don’t show up when it’s over
with a hello and a hug
expecting me to thank you
for coming.

tinder bio reads as follows:

looking for someone
to keep the promises
i make in my poetry
i know they're not your responsibility
sorry not sorry.

i don't **** with one night stands
unless you keep my poem promise
to never fall in love
with the happiness
that i can't have.

ask me about my
existential dread
(god knows i have
plenty to talk about)

6'2 if that matters
it always does
(does anyone even read these)

i didn’t feel anything.
not when the curves of the earth
dipped into valleys and we plummeted into each other
not when we draped silk between our mouths
and kissed each thread into dust
not when i felt the honey from your tongue
cascade and soothe my worried heart
i felt nothing even when i pretended to
and i do so wish i had any regrets
because tomorrow,
i will still feel nothing,
and i will still want to.

just let me
make myself sad
in peace.

he sits at a desk in the library.
it’s nearly midnight and you watch him
take his notes and drink his water.
you’re a desk away from him
and you know that it’s much too late
to be making conversation
but he looks up
ruffles his own hair
and smiles at you something weary
something tired
something beautiful enough to
make you smile back
more genuinely than you honestly should.
he’s a stranger but it’s fine.

it’s dead silent in here
just you and the books
and the millions of things you could say
wrapped up in them
and while you’re trying to think of something
he curls his lips around the words
“finals, huh?”

you laugh and say
“yeah man.”

you want to maybe elaborate
tell him that this psychology exam
might actually be the death of you
tell him that you’ve been studying for
four hours straight and you think your eyes
might actually fall out of your head.

he laughs back and nods
“how many exams you got left?”

you groan
“just one. you?”

“two.”

“good luck with that”

he laughs and you want to say something
to make him do it again

he feels special
you know?
like.
you just know sometimes
but the air doesn’t feel like magic
it feels like you’re in a library
at midnight the night before a final exam
that you don’t know a **** thing about
but the guy a desk away from you
is still looking at you.
he’s still.
looking at you.

and you hadn’t noticed but
you’re still looking at him too.

he says
“i’ve been here since like six.
do you wanna get a coffee?”

just a little smile around the words
“yeah, sure.”

and you put away your psychology notes
and your laptop and your book
even though you’ll need to study for
at least three more hours to understand
a single thing it’s fine.
he packs up his things and the two of you
walk to the elevator.
he lets you press the button

you ask
“what were you studying?”

he says
“bio. you?”

“psych.”

“ouch.”

“yeah”
you laugh
and he laughs
and the elevator laughs
as it dings and opens its doors
even the environment has begun to
take part in your merriness.

you step inside
he hits the button for the first floor
and he says
“i took psych last semester.
which one are you in?”

you say
“one-ten.”

he says
“yeah that one’s rough. barely
passed it.”

“tell me about it”
you joke

and then the elevator dings again
and the doors open again
and the two of you fumble to step out
like you go first no you go first
and it’s all very cute

and you get to the starbucks on the first floor
get in line and take note of
how many people are still here
frantically cramming information into their
tired
tired
brains.

time skip
you two have your coffee.
you sit at a little table that
just barely became vacant
and you sip.
you got something hot and
he got something cold
and you thought it was cute because
it’s december and here he is with a frappe.

you chit and you chat
and think maybe this could be that
romance for the ages
that the movies talk about.

his laugh is like a jingle bell
happy holidays to you both
it seems.

he smiles at you again and you
sip your coffee
and before you know it
it's dangerously approaching 2 a.m.
but you can’t bring yourself to
check the time anymore

you laugh until you’re not strangers anymore
and he says
“this is such a great study break”

you say
“i’m so glad you asked to get coffee”

he smiles and says
“me too.”

and it’s all downhill from there

(or is it uphill?
you never can remember).

i’m too busy
thinking about why it doesn’t matter
to wonder if it should.
everyone else seems to be skilled
in the art of leaving
i never was skilled in the art
of being left behind.

i wouldn’t expect a post card
if i were you.
don’t worry
i’ll try my best to miss you
at some point.

i am not enough of
what i need to be
and too much of
what i am
sometimes the ribbons just
cut me to pieces
i talk to myself and say
“god i just love you”
and i respond back sometimes
i’m just not sure what i say
the days hang low around my waist
you may catch a glimpse of me
sliding conversations in my pockets
i get home and drop them on my desk
rewind and review
i forget my umbrella a lot
and it’s not like i’m afraid of the rain
i’m afraid that i'll enjoy it so much
that i’ll pull fire alarms
just to start the sprinklers.

have you ever tried to write poetry
when you’re not at all feeling poetic?
when life isn’t necessarily ugly
but it isn’t necessarily beautiful either?
when you could talk about
the sonder you try to feel
as the people sitting at tables around you
eat their food, talk on the phone, finish their homework, sip their coke
do whatever it is they do
when you could talk about how the
chill of this air reaches underneath
your goosebump skin
and draws out a shiver, a chatter
when you could capture the sounds
of the ice machine
and the clicking keyboard keys
and the rusty sliding of chairs on
a linoleum floor
when you could write about
whatever you **** well please
but it just doesn’t come to you?
have you ever been too tired
to feel tired?
god, i wish i were awake.
life is happening
and where am i?

another story on the news.

no, he says.
the problem in this country
isn’t guns. it’s morals.

he loads another bullet.

i get myself dizzy
and remember why i fell in love
with your steadiness.

we put so much faith
in the length of a day
we think we need a day to heal
from whatever emotional damage
we’ve inflicted on each other this time
we think that when we wake
tomorrow morning
life will revert to default
as if sleep is a reset button
and the morning is a new start
but that's preposterous
don’t you know that we can restart
any time at all?
we don’t have to wait until tomorrow
for a new mindset
to begin
open yourself up to the idea
that life changes in minutes
not days
every new minute
is a minute that could
change your
life
let it.

and i’d like for it to sound poetic.
poetic and sad
“the car smelled of
cigarette smoke
as we swerved
on an empty highway
waiting for the sun
to catch up”
nah.
neither of us smokes
and you didn’t swerve
and the highway wasn’t empty
and it was only
eleven p.m.
we weren’t running from the sun
i’d like to say
we were chasing it
but baby when
have we ever done something
so brave?
nah.
it would even be poetic
to admit that we’re cowards
but we aren’t those either
we’re just ****** people
you know?
that’s all we are
that’s all anyone is
driving on a highway at eleven p.m.
with other people
who are just people
and ****
if that isn’t the most poetic
and sad ****
that i’ve heard all day.
ha.
turns out the highway
was empty
after all.

but that moment you took hold of me
in the darkened room
cinema lights reaching ever corner
of my needy
lonely heart
it wasn’t so much a breathlessness
as it was you breathing into me
the air that i had been missing
i understand now.
there will always be part of me
that belongs to you.

i wouldn’t get so close if i were you.
these jagged edges look soft in your light
but
the moment you dim
and you need me to cradle your bones
and nurse you back to bright
you will see
i’m sorry you will see
i’m sorry
these jagged edges
are the only things that
you can only see
when it gets dark

(and suns set too soon around here)

you fill me with
the kind of
wanderlust
that makes me want
to dig up the bones
of antique cities
but if you asked me if
i wanted to just
curl up underneath covers
twinkling lights and
limbs twisted and entangled
i’d go get the blankets.

there are people on the internet
who will always know more about me
than my parents do.
they’ll see my tagline and
they’ll feel it
the same way that i feel it
the rush that comes with that
very first introduction
the freedom that tags along
on the coattails of
a name that at least one person
will keep as yours
they’ll feel the sadness
that comes with the moment
that someone you love
turns out to not love you back
well, not you
specifically, but
your kind
as they say
they’ll feel the dread
that comes with the look
in someone’s eyes when they
find out about everything
they’ll feel the excitement
that comes along with
the first smile that a stranger gives you
when you introduce yourself
and they don’t question
your very existence
or turn your greeting into a debate
they’ll feel the solidarity.
they’ll feel the community.
two words that i broadcast
to everyone except the two people
who gave me two different words
before they even asked what i liked.

mom. dad.
i’m not your baby girl.
i love you.
this is me
this is who i am
and who i am
isn’t going anywhere.

i hope one day
you’ll learn to love him.

i sit across a redwood
familiar strangers
who hear themselves asking how i am
but never hear me answering
i sit behind a redwood
tip tapping feet in the shadow
they want to tip tap on out
i sit beside redwoods
others with their own familiar strangers
who hear themselves asking how they are
but never hear them answering
strange how we bond over
the fact that no one
is bonding
happy thanksgiving to my
unfamiliar kin
here’s to another year of
never being thankful until
we feel guilty
about it.

i’m not sure that my body
knows how to handle
excitement or fear
but on the bright side
i think i’ve found a way
to cope with the answers to questions
i still don’t know how to ask.
i really do love myself sometimes.

the misty skyline at 11am was what did it
there were also the neon lights
flashing a few blocks uphill
the silhouettes of palm trees
and the smell of gasoline and churros
one couple behind me speaking russian
and a group in front speaking spanish
stepping on the stars
and capturing moments in the sky
those big block letters on the mountain
and also the rest of the mountains
the picturesque hanging lights
and dimly lit restaurants
the balconies and the bustling crowds
panhandlers with their money’s worth
and a nighttime energy to die for
but it was the misty skyline at 11am that did it
this truly is the city of angels
and i am among the stars

i’m pretty tired of beautiful things
looking so small in my hands
my worn, tender hands
they want to finally become the home
of things that my severity can’t crush
i am a ruiner in my own right
it’s just that i really only ruin
what is just out of reach

i’m not a confrontational fellow
i let myself get pushed to the ground
and i get up without a word
never demand an apology because
it was my fault that i was ever in the way

i rarely sleep when it’s dark out
when everyone is asleep
there’s no one to treat me harshly
and stare as i lose myself in another round
and another photo
and another song lyric

i’m so pretentious
this poem doesn’t even mean anything

i’m excited for sunday
as excited as i can be after
19 years of learning to be let down
i’m embarrassed to say that i gave up
before there was anything to give

i’d give that little number in the mirror
the entire world
if she’d just tell me
she loves me too.

this place is filled
with skins that i’ll never be able
to slide myself into
here i am browsing the aisles
of personas that i may dream about
but silky sundresses
and button up skirts
could never work their way
around me
i guess

don’t ask me if i could love you
don’t you see?
i not only could
but i do
i do so fearfully and honestly
if you asked me
how in this woven basket of a world
could i manage to rest beside you
and not wish to see
what lies beyond the wicker
i would have nothing to say except
that the air beneath this blanket
is plenty breathable
to me.

i’m not sure what it is
about being a stranger
that makes them all seem so beautiful
the faces in the crowd
blend together
but not before i notice
every single one of them.
i’m not sure what it is
about abandoning their identities as strangers
that makes them all seem so beautiful
strangers are strange
and i think we all become strangers
to ourselves at some point
and so
aren’t we all beautiful to ourselves
at some point
too?

and if you’re fond of
floating in the limbo
between handshake
and hug
then i suppose
i better make myself
at home.

my god have i mentioned
that it hurts
i’m consumed and waiting
in the belly of this beast
no one asks so
no one knows
and that’s the way
he likes it.

i've written and posted
seventy three poems
on this website for the sake of you
and for the sake of my own safe keeping.
this makes seventy four.
seventy four poems that i've written
and still i don't think
i ever really
said
anything at all.

your smell is stuck in my head
i made it up but i know it’s true

i daydream of your hands on my cheeks
your lips on my lips
my fingers in your hair
and i can smell it

you sing strawberries and watermelons but
you smell like firewood and ink
its my most absurd fantasy
that you could find a piece of me to love
so i’ll keep your voice in my ears
and let you sing me to sleep
with that sugar and salt melody

if it burns my tongue
then so be it.