Your lips part
At the nape of my neck

You brush them
Against my tingling skin

Closing my eyes
At the slight touch of them


I'm home.

i.
You realize life's real currency
isn't money, which can be spent on me,
but time, which can be spent with me.

ii.
The others saw you as a beggar,
but it is me who has begged for you to stay.

iii.
Tie a ribbon around my finger,
it all means just the same.

Underneath our
bruised mask of skin,
We are the same.

I can no longer hear the smooth notes of jazz,
how the saxophone, trumpet, and piano
worked together in harmony when we didn't.

I can no longer find shelter in the soft chords,
for the safety I once felt in your presence
has been compromised once again.

They call jazz a dying art, which,
I guess, is what we became.

As I opened the medicine cabinet
carefully hidden behind a broken mirror,
I discovered transparent orange bottles
with broken childproof tabs on each cap,
concealing diet pills the size of ants.

I replaced the capsules with fully bloomed daisies
and I hope you swallow each petal
and ingest each stem entirely
so you can eat something that,
like you, encompasses beauty.

I cracked my bones,
curled my legs,
and bent my spine,
forcing myself to
fit your definition of
human perfection.

I presented my morphed bundle
of brittle bones and stretched skin
before your dark eyes...
and you still walked away.

I was never going to be
good enough for you, was I?
But now that I see what I've become,
I am not good enough for me, either.

Your words are art.

They dance off your tongue into the air
Sharing the atmosphere with my stunned silence.

Each string of twenty-six tragically overused letters
You sculpt together effortlessly in a matter of milliseconds.

Your words are art,
And you paint my fading reality anew with brilliant colors.

You had the ocean in your eyes.
The sea held the power to crush anything in its path.
Those tragic, rolling waves of deception, destruction.
I'm drowning beneath the surface as you take me    u
                                                                                            n
                                                                                                  d
                                                                                                        e
                                                                                                            r.

My brittle skeleton has become an abandoned motel
and you
were its last visitor.

Why didn't you enjoy your stay?

I made a trail of light kisses across your forehead
like spreading mints on your pillow in the morning.
I peeled back the curtains
to let rays of light color your cheekbones
and swept your troubles underneath the wooden sofa legs.  

A motel's only guests
are faint silhouettes of those passing through.
How did I believe you could be permanent?

I have cleaned every inch
of this haunted cottage,
but when I dust the mantel of my shoulder blades,
I only find your smudged fingerprints.

I cannot scrub you from my skin.
It flakes,
it scars,
but you are still embedded there.

How did I mistake touching for feeling?

A closed sign now dangles around my neck
This vacancy can never be filled.

these bones have outgrown these thin sheets of skin.
every stretch causes a mark, a blemish.
they fear for the day they will rip,
tear their outer shell,
leaving them
vulnerable,
open,
exposed.

some things are meant to be hidden away.

Your life is written on your palms
the creases anxiously spreading
all leading to unique paths
changing, for nothing is predetermined.

I stroll down memory lane
Because I love running into you.

Jagged,
Scuffed,
Cut...
Alone.

A part of me is missing.

The small boy dreamed of
small pink rose gardens and
playing with bright-eyed dolls.
He never found the joy in
the crack of a baseball bat
or the rolling wheels of a toy car.
Mommy and Daddy never understood
where they had gone wrong with him.
They were too focused on the debate
of blue versus pink to realize their child
was wiser at five than they were at thirty-two.

my father was an electrician
but he never taught me how to remedy
strong jolts of electricity
that leave your limbs quaking,
your lips shaking,
your soul aching.

they say a bolt of lightning
can measure up to three million volts,
but, then again,
your touch holds more power than any storm.

You cocked your head to the side
And parted your lips slightly to show a sly smile

Slowly, you raised your lightweight shirt
To show the words that would be permanently sketched on your body

Forever

Your body is a canvas
and you decorated it like so

It's beautiful.

Our malnourished souls
beat in opposite time.

We are not in sync,
in pattern.

Deprived, we are together
but somehow
a  p  a   r   t.

I either lose sleep
for you
or
because of you.

Stand tall.

Inked forever on my shoulder
In cursive

It gracefully dances
When I move

In joyous celebration
Of its worth.

The moles on your hunched back
form themselves into constellations
each dot connecting to its neighbor.

I've become endlessly starry eyed
gazing at the wonders of your galaxy.

The roots of my fingers sprout small flowers
Each fragile stem intertwined with its neighbor
Growing and flourishing in a matter of a seconds
Carefully blooming right before my very eyes
Aching to touch the outstretched stems from your fingertips.

The birth of a new plant.
One body, one mind,
One heart.

Those old dusty blinds opened
Allowing the rays of sunlight
To once again shine into the room
Coloring the blank white walls.

Reflecting through the empty spaces
It fills my soul with the promise of another day.

My tired eyes catch a small glimpse
of the sunset outside my bedroom window.

It reminds me of you.

It has the rosy pinks of your cheeks,
The soft blues of your eyes,
The faint yellow pigments of your skin.

As long as the sun in the cloud covered sky will set in the west,
Transforming so the stars may fill the spaces of the vast darkness of night,
You'll be here, with me.

Salty tears streamed down my face
filling the deep sea of sadness.
,            ,        ,
        ,          ,          ,
    ,    ­       ,
           ,         ,
With my head bobbing between every crushing wave,
you taught me how to     s  w   i   m.

a chimney once held between
******* lies on the pavement
head kicked in
ash spluttered
against the concrete
embers refusing to let go
of their blood orange glow

I think about you around the holidays,
how I’d follow the sprinkles scattered on the floor
like bright constellations guiding me to you
kneading dough on the kitchen counter.
Your dress shirt, missing a button near the pressed collar,
was painted with flour. You carried those grains of sugar
in the pocket of your fingernails for days.

The holidays aren’t the same since you left.
The wreath has shed its needles
like a rattlesnake stripping of its skin.
The Coca-Cola snow globe on the mantel has cracked,
leaking snow confetti onto the rug.
(I swear it was sobbing, too.)

Last night, I awoke to a glass ornament
dropping to the floor like a fallen angel.
I sliced my fingertip on a shard
while sweeping the remains.
I found your missing button under the tree skirt,
the only piece of you that stayed.

My father is a lion with his mane cut
                               and slicked back, learning to walk
                   on hind legs, back arched high.

                                          ~

             ­         My mother has a wolf in her chest
             howling for light, for the
                                          lantern hanging in the sky.

                                          ~

                   ­                            My brother has a cage
                                                            ­        for ribs
                                                        but so do I.

                                          ~

I am a wild safari:
             a bathing elephant, a sleeping
                                               tiger, a brilliant peacock fanning its
                                  feathers, waiting to
     **** its head and release
          a warrior cry.

My touch can start brush fires.
My fingers are ***** matchsticks,
the kind your mother warned about.

My petaled lips spark against yours
like flint against steel.

My volatile breath, an overcast of smoke
creeping from the belly of my throat.

My twisted tongue douses your chalky skin
with fuel, a gasoline spreading to your logged limbs.

I leave your organs to curdle,
and by morning glow,
you’re nothing but a burn victim.

She had a storm brewing inside her
Every pulsing vein feeling the thunder within
Flashes of light filling her darkened eyes
Her tears falling like rain down her pale cheeks

Facing destruction, she caved in...
Destroyed before her eyes could see the clouds part.

i.

You say 
I look like a twig

as if I should be ashamed

to be compared to a strong tree.



ii.

You hold my gelatin arm,

letting it hang, 
laughing
that I am all skin and bones,

but aren't you, too?



iii.

You think I should come
with a caution label
explaining how to properly hold something

as breakable and fragile as glass. 



iv.

You slink your arm around my waist,
dancing your fingertips over my protruding hip bones,

confessing it feels like it doesn't belong.

Why isn't it beautiful
a part of my vessel isn't
 hidden?



v.

You are aghast when my ribcage

slightly shows, stretching my masked skin.

Why are you horrified
to see the very structure

protecting the ***** I love you with?



vi.

Twice the portions,
 twice
the helping.
 Will I always have to prove
I am anything, but 
empty?



vii.

Last time I checked,

you were a skeleton, too.

Mothers don't allow their young daughters
to experiment with make-up until old enough
but I had no choice but to bring a brush to my face
and paint the canvas to hide each blemish.
Long sleeves, loose scarves, fitted jeans,
anything to hide the daily playground ritual.  
The swing I experienced was not hanging from chains
but rather from the tightened fists of someone I once knew.
I found solidarity underneath the weeping willow tree
as we sobbed together in the cool air of November.

Trapped in an
suffocating cage
of self-doubt,

I fight back.

The violence of my vast imagination
wraps around me,
grabs a hold of me,
tight,
tightly,
tighter,
until there is nothing left.

Our eyes locked.
You sitting on the left.
Me sitting on the right.
You lightly touched your blond hair.
Tousled it slightly to show your beautiful blue eyes.
Your smile.
God, that smile.
After that moment, I knew.

Now, on our wedding day,
I give myself to you.
Right by the very track we met.
You are still as beautiful as the day I saw you across the train.
You sitting on the left.
Me sitting on the right.

Sprawled out
Body spread
Arms open
Heart beating
Eyes closed
Lips yearning

You're here.

Everything in life was enough
until you realized I wasn't.

We’re all just waiting.
Just waiting for something.
Anything.
Hoping it won’t pass us by.
Completely still, we linger.
Thinking it will find us.
We stand idly by.
Wishing, wanting, needing.
Looking for some sort of sign.
A peek into the unforeseeable future.
We yearn to have decisions made for us.
Not wanting to bear the consequences.
If we always wait, it will surely pass us by.

You are a stallion,
The wind running through your knotted mane,
Free and wild.

For years he has tried to tame you,
Mold you like clay into something he can understand,
Something he can control.
(You belong wholly to yourself.)

The stable is crumbling,
The fence is decaying,
The trough is empty.
(This place has nothing for you.)

Use your hooves to gallop away, my dear.
Do not ever come back,
For this is not your home.
It never was.

The sea is the only creation
that can feel

(s)ympathy,
(e)mpathy, and
(a)pathy

all at once.

A beautiful contradiction.

Where in the world is Waldo?
He blends in the endless crowds that clog the city streets.
No way to turn, no way out.

Where in the world is Waldo?
He finds himself at a beautiful beach,
overtaken by a tidal wave of emotions.
Filling him up to the brim, to his full capacity.

Where in the world is Waldo?
Lost in the physical and emotional world.
Never to be truly found.