perhaps i beckon love
and failure
in proportion.

i know dresses don't fit me like a tube sock
and the skin around my fingernails is raw
but i'm tired of walking away from a love story
and feeling as if i'll never
walk home to one.

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

my god you were such a beautiful stranger
i've still got the confetti in my hair
between the smoke and the shot in the barrel of a loaded gun
don't you remember us being there?
god i remember us being there.

look at this
this condensed structure of bone
and syrup
with its jaw slack
and it’s eyes so empty
gather round and take a glance
at this creature
stumbling about in a trance-like state
of corrupted effort and damnation
it is the spirit of exhaustion
and disappointment
it hides in your closet

it certainly hid
in mine

i only ask one
thing. make sure it hurts before
you go.

it's a battle between
the painting and the profit
and we're all looking for
a little change.

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.

wake from the slumber
groggier and more hidden
than before i slept

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.

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.

i wonder if
what i do or
don’t do
will change the way you
think of me
look at me
feel about me
why do i have such
a tendency to feel
lonely only when i’m
not alone?
i’m thankful for so much
but not much at all
is thankful
for me.

you look at a marble
and you see a moment
it rolls across the floor and
you know that it's time spinning by
like a memory you haven't witnessed yet

you know sacrifice
like no other.

what do parking lots
and my heart
have in common?

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

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.

bobble from the branches
like earrings
do you think the tree can hear us
do you think it hears the octaves
all the volumes all the quiets
do you think maybe this christmas
is watching us? seeing us? believing us?
not believing us?
it’s beginning to look a lot like christmas
is shifting all around us
trying to shift us out of the room
good riddance
we’ve forgotten the meaning
anyway

hello.
i’m your next almost.
i’m your next could-have-been
your next never-was.
don’t fear my dear.
i grew out of the ground
blooming tow(for)ard you
as if you were the sun
and you trod upon me.
that’s.
fine
print at the bottom
of the page.
that’s me.
the cliffnote.
off the cliff
i go
off
to never never land
it never was
a place for us
to land

hello.
i’m your next not-a-chance.
i’m your next give-it-a-chance
your next missed-your-chance.
don’t fear my dear.
i bled from the sky
falling tow(for)ard you
and you pulled out
an umbrella.
that’s.
fine
tooth comb
finding in the honeycombs
the sweetness
that could have
dripped onto your lips.
that’s me.
your honey
your sweetness

hello.
i’m your next the-one
your next there-is-no-one-else-for-me.
don’t fear my dear.
i am your next.
not your last.
and as for me
don’t fear my dear.
i’m your next.
i will be
someone else’s next
too.

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.

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.

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.

i don’t want you
the real you or who you are with me
not like that
not in the way that i’ve been thinking about recently
i think my brain is a little disconnected
from reality or from rational thought
because i’ve never wanted you like that
except for maybe that one time
that i thought i was in love with you
but that was a fluke
anyway the point still stands
i don’t want you
the real you or who you are with me
and i think maybe they’re the same
which is kind of what makes me think
maybe i do.

i don’t like poems that rhyme
sorry sorry sorry
i know a **** ton of people write
poems that rhyme
it’s like
a thing.
but i think rhyming
makes reading
too easy
and i think rhyming
makes writing
too tired
“you feel the tempo rise and fall
something something that rhymes with fall”
imagine
this living breathing poem
squishing itself into the
constricted sound of “all”
ah luh
don’t you have more to say?
do you spend your entire life
learning words that will never
become poetry because
they don’t rhyme
with fall?
don’t you
have more
to say?
i have
so much
to say
i’m sorry if i can’t
write poems that rhyme
maybe i’ll give it a shot
next time
(around)

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 was riding through the city earlier
and i thought of you. thought maybe
if you were there,
we’d get off at the stop for the art museum.
we’d look at the paintings
and the sculptures
no, i wouldn’t be so cliched
as to say i would be too busy looking at you
to look at the art
because i would, of course,
look at the art.
it’s just that you would fit right in.

i thought maybe if you were there,
we’d get off at the stop for a place
we had never heard of
we’d walk until we found an ice cream shop
and you’d get two scoops of chocolate
and i’d pretend to judge you
because all sensible people get sherbet.
thought maybe we’d walk the sidewalk
and i’d point out all the dogs
and take pictures of you even though
you’d shield your face
thought maybe i’d pretend
i didn’t just try to hold your hand
thought maybe you’d pretend
you didn’t want me to.

i thought maybe if you were there,
we’d stay out until midnight
and admire the lights still on in the buildings
as if they were stars.
i thought maybe if you were there,
the city would bring out the quiet in us
the gentle liveliness
thought maybe you’d think
the sky was devoid of stars not because
of light pollution but because
they fell into my eyes
or something.
that’s what i’d think.

that’s what i thought maybe.
but you weren’t there.
so, lost in thought, i rode around
until it started to rain
and then wondered why i got wet
on the lonely walk home.

i’m sure my shoes will slide off my feet
without the velvet straps
and the wind will slip in
through the knits in my sleeves
and my lipstick will end up
on my chin
and my mouth will go numb
craving a new taste
but this anger that i’m harboring
is fruitless and useless
i just like it
so **** much.

it’s not that i want to be alone
it’s that i don’t want to be around anyone
unless they’re you

you’re the only person i can talk to
as soon as i wake up

my lips get numb and i miss
your soprano laugh
and spinning around on a needle is fun
but it’s more fun when you’re
spinning, too

it’s a kindred sadness
not a cousin,
but a friend

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

just a little pinprick
my own voice in my head like
needles and knives
yeah i know it’s stupid
but hey listen hey listen hey hey hey
i can’t stop listening
i can’t stop listening
i keep not talking and
i can’t stop listening

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?

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 let a lonely wednesday creep up
i keep a key ring around my thumb
last night my feet were like leather
belted like whiplash
i may have crashed
a pink cough syrup daydream
flooded through the mainstream
i wonder could i have wandered
into nightlife
the way you tried?
we’ll all still be here next time
limbs like my father
a family tree won’t you agree
some punch and some slap
some kiss and come back
some don’t
we still miss the ones that go
plus the ones that stay at home
i’ve never felt so not alone
couch cushions and make-up bags
she brags
about a boy with pretty lips
he leaves before he quits
i think i came away with a photo
of a lover distracted by some other
consequence
he closed his eyes they took him in
i think it was
such a pretty melancholy mess
i missed you nonetheless.

the more i ask for things
the more i realize i don't know how
to ask for things.
spent a lot of time as a kid
learning that i can believe i deserve something
but that doesn't mean that i do
i cried in the library yesterday.
i was very very sad
and then i decided not to be
anymore.

my chest feels like a balloon and
it’s bound to pop
sometime
i’m just waiting for the needle
(people,
much like balloons,
are usually looking for a
reason to
deflate)

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.

it’s a good idea to take a moment each day
to remind yourself where you stand
and who you could have been
had you been standing
somewhere else.

when you want to be kind
be kind
but when you want to be mean
be kinder

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.

if they leave you behind
if they dance under strobe lights
the same ones that they said
brought out your eyes
if they freeze these moments
and churn them into memories that
you’ll never be a part of
if they let you slip their mind
and if you’re still trying to remind them
if they leave you behind
it may be time to
leave them ahead

once or twice you
were in my arms
i remember so clearly your hair in my face
the scent of your shampoo
and the touch of your fingertips
coming to rest on my cheek
once or twice you
were an almost that i went home wishing for
a maybe that i should have latched onto
once or twice you
made me think it was close and it was real
and you kissed my nose when
i thought you were going to kiss my lips
and i’m not complaining because
i think anything more would be
too much
but still if you wake up today
wondering if you should have
you should have.

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.

its a lifelong feeling of
thinking i woke up in the wrong bed
i don’t know how i got here
it’s soft and i’m so tired
and maybe i’ll just rest for a while
even though i know i don’t belong

i wrote a story about my life
popping like a balloon
and she didn’t want it;
i guess we all get stuck with things.

i like to think about
the time before
my life was familiar to me.
remember when the tiles of this
hallway had never
seen my footsteps?
remember when the buttons of this
elevator had never
felt my fingertips?
remember when the music that
filled this hall had never
been made by me?
my memory of the flags in the windows
and the trees breaking up
the pavement in the parking lot
and the glass doors made of
piano keys
it never meant anything then.
i only thought i understood
what i was seeing
when i thought i’d never
see it again.
the painting in front of me
has changed me as much
as i changed it.
just think
if i saw the same things a year ago
as what i’m seeing today
and nothing seems the same
how different will everything be
tomorrow?

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.

all i know is
everyone around
me is unhappy
and i guess
i am too

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.

i was born with the sun behind the trees
i was neither miracle nor mistake
just felicity
it’s sad that this sadness is mine
it carries me on through midnight
memories and years
i’ve has almost plenty
nobody at nineteen
now me at twenty.

oh, how badly
i want to show you
the truth
that the sun does not shine for you
the sun will never shine for you
and you can live with that
oh, how badly
i want to show you
that you can be kind
******* you can be so kind
the kind of kind that
blooms the flowers in your chest
and leaves petals after your every footfall
oh, how badly
i want to show you
that things will only be okay
if you let them be okay
let them be okay.
let youself.
be okay.
oh, how badly
i want to show you
to tell you
to pound it into your ******* head
that
you
are
allowed
to
be
okay.

i know that the universe (or
whatever force runs it)
doesn't revolve around me
it seems unlikely
but sometimes i wonder if the universe (or
whatever force runs it)
caught a glimpse of me
and said "this one. yes
this one will be happy.
this one will find those ones
and they'll all end up okay."
still
sometimes i wonder if
the spinning angel
tucked inside
the foggy teapot in the sky
withdrew a blanket from
the clouds and settled in
to watch my life
fall into place.

i think about him when i hear a love song
and it makes me smile
but then i think of you, too.
and i lose my breath at the thought.
i would love to settle for him,
but i know that song would come on,
and i would slither away from him
inch by inch
until i found my place beside you.