Is truth relevant
when she farts?
I lie, only then,
and look away,
with a ****
smile. I love her.

You are not the scars on your body, and you are not the mistakes you have made, and you are not the people who have hurt you

You are the sun & the stars and music late at night and bare feet on fresh grass. You are all the things that keep you alive when it's 1am and your insides are screaming.

I am the poem
I refuse to write.

My skin has formed itself
as sedimented book pages,
quietly injecting
our unspoken metaphors
into my bloodstream
of Murakami, of Plath,
of everything that hurt too much
to even whisper to my typewriter.

I am a poet,
and I will type you
into the night sky.

Sunday morning
Let the Hallelujahs
Come
And let my
Grandma
Tell me
Im a sinner
And im lost
As if
I
Dont
Already
Know

We are all
just lifetimes
searching for
       infinities.
     And the broken
    parts or who
we were
      should never
          be excluded
   from the beauty
of what we
are.
     -Andrew Durst

By following the light,
You will break yourself.
You will be punched and pushed,
And stretched to lengths
you never thought you could venture.
But you will survive.

The light saves you from that decaying part of you that would be your demise.
It heals you and makes you whole.
By destroying you,
and putting you back together.
Tighter.
Stronger.

--

A new day,
A new person.

You rise from the fire;
The flames lick your skin.
They feel warm,
And you feel rejuvenated.

You are reborn from fire, from the light,
And light you become.

--

The darkness is repelled by your presence;
You have broken free of your deficiencies.
By conquering your demons,
You have proved yourself above the dark.

The blackness is trapped beneath your feet,
*It can never control you again...

Inventing shooting stars
to keep you here and hopeful
while I finagle with my courage
and inch closer to your smile
on a bridge that runs over no river.

The shade and the light,
a yin yang movie theater,
concealing our back-row distractions
under the din and darkness of
a film we're both missing.

Afternoon sunlight chopped up
by the blinds and served
through them, like hors d'oeuvres,
onto our warm bodies
lying together above the covers.

Echoes of our shouting
in the quiet of an impasse that will grow
into a chasm that runs under no bridge
if I reach over and hold you.
Which I always do.

Closing your bedroom door,
aching to turn around and silence your sobbing
that follows me all the way
through your apartment
and out of your future.