I..am a collector of words;
Words that weave together
To form the clauses
that blossom into stories; people’s stories.
Words that keep secrets, spin lies,
Howl profound confessions from the rooftops of minds
Rushing out and over the ledges of lips to fall
On ears that do not listen—floating
Story after story, finally reaching the ground—forgotten.

On the sidewalk lay the slain and mangled things;
Victims of gravity—of silence that refused to break—
Of ears that refused to listen.

i… am the undertaker of the alphabet city.
I pick up the fallen, garbled, and lifeless;
Carting them away to the depths of my mind
Cataloguing, keeping, revering the reverberating vibrations.
my ears hear what is yearning to be heard
they acknowledge the wants of language.

I practice the Resuscitation of monologues
and the Defibrillation of forgotten phrases
an EMT of etymology,
I coagulate the bloodied and heartfelt confessions of lovers
suturing the spaces between breathless sentences.

prophetic Disambiguations clutch at gray matter and claw through flesh
tearing the tethered syllables from which meanings are formed.

I twist plot like a lemon twists martinis
Weaving tales that intertwine like the digits in math
or my hands when you held them in your own.
clasped shut.

tongue-tied is just another term for french kiss
and it is hard for you to find the right words to say
because I, a collector, have caught every last one from your lips.

My mother always said:
“Date someone who loves you more than you love him. That way, he will never leave you”
As if, being alone was worse off than being stuck ******* a man I feel nothing for.
As if, I was expected to trade my happiness for stability.
As if, my love was not strong enough on its own.

As if, my worth was something that could only be measured out in transactions—
in dozens of roses
—I hate roses.

But he who loves me more
believes that I am perfect
so its okay
because perfect girls love perfect things like roses
…which are red.

and passion is red, and **** is red
so he measures out his love for me in vases and bouquets of roses
…which are red

and violets are blue,
but so are bruised egos
and mine is too damaged to tell him
that I can’t love him like Im supposed to.
because my mother always warned me not to.