When two words meet
there is a crack
running like spilt red
wine from one end of
my room to the
other

there are voices
living in it
young girls that
scream and laugh
as they fly through
the air on swings

old men that creek
when they move
and breath heavily
as if the weight
of their decades
is a physical onus

before my train leaves
I stand in the middle
of the room and spread
my arms as if they
are wings

my fingers don't touch
the plaster, which is strange,
after spending so many nights
convinced that the
parameters are closing
in on my dreams

I was brought up
to believe in last
looks and I have
grown up to believe in
railway stations and
airports

looking back it seems
cruel to be told that
your address isn't fixed
that there is no point
in learning to live with
the cracks

I leave a pink post it
over the crack
'There's no place
like home' and as
I leave to front door
unlocked, I wonder how
full the carriage will be

and if the stranger
next to me will carry
a portmanteau

The leather of your boots and the
Folds in your jeans, they
Unfolded like
Petals of water and
Floods of mercury in my chest.
No, I won't cry over a picture
A collection of
Pixels on a screen.

It was 99 days ago today
She said she'd drive the first part
When we brought you to the train
Ninety-nine days and four states ago
When you and your magazines waited
For them to take you away
Well I never promised that
I wouldn't cry

He said that it was worth
the fight.

All the wounds that he got
were on the exact place where
they should be

"In time those wounds
would turn into scars, and you'll
never get rid of them"
I said not looking into his eyes.

These scars may appear
as a glitch on my skin to others
but  it's a perfection to me and you
but they'll never understand
because they don't know


That these scars speak
of a language that
only you and I know.

Haughty eyes bestow a daunting glare,
dismissing true beauty.
Their muffled conversations
reverberate inside my prism.  
Carcasses lie in a stiffened, upright position,
indicating everlasting submission.
My future is bleak; my past stalks me from behind.
Am I not a righteous soul?
Have I desecrated my body; your body?
Have I defecated on the holy scriptures?
Oh, what do I know?
I’m just a fly stuck in a window….

It was a whisper in my day, seven quick
words against stark white to remind me who I am:

I am the words spilling from the point of
my Pilot XGrip, carefully ordered to represent
my wandering mind.

I am a mess, the pile of laundry huddled next
to an overflowing dresser, a muddled sea of
organized chaos.

I am movement caught in the stillness of a
photograph, the buzzing blood flow of
finding moments.

I am summer, a sticky shirt and 4 am with
your arms draping over my shoulders for
the second time.

I am flapping wings and shattered thoughts, a kiss,
and eyes one inch from mine yet I have no idea
what color I am.

I am you.
And even still I am him,
the you that came before you.

I am six months ago, the night I teetered on
the railing long enough for him to tell me how
pretty I looked.

I am the stairs he joined me on, the hide out from
the party he invited me to and I couldn’t quite
fit in with.

I am train seats
and crossword puzzles,
strange professors
and picnic tables.
I am orange cheese puffs
and little kids answering
grown up questions.

I am you,
the other you,
the better you,
the you that got away.

Watch;
everything will be illuminated.
Teeth lacquered in glass shards
will bite down on plaster hearts,
Yet the sweet perfume
of your rancid breath
Will never give us life
nor Death.

Watch;
everything will be undisputed.
Vapid tastes will linger on sordid tongues.
Cover your mouths, irascible ones!
The race to end has just begun!