There is something to be said about me loving women:
I did not love them gently. I had rage and
though their skin was smooth, their hearts could be as hard as
a man’s. Then, there are the men who I held when
mugs of green tea were only something we could burn our
tongues on, we would slide them together
and their wounded bodies slept on the other’s welts.

I have learned it is okay to be soft to those who can hurt me,
that there are hundreds of ways to love someone
that his hurt and her hurt is not always similar to mine.

I have relationships with and in watercolors.
The paints are conversations we could never bare having or
dishonesties swirling, permanent on some canvas –
picked up colors as wiry black hairs and straight auburn ones.
She folded my dress on the balcony but
a grey windstorm violently stole it. She made it happen.

I have learned that purity can hurt me, too,
the skipping stones that stub someone else’s toes and make
their feet taste like salt. The women I have loved
saw moonlight brighter than I ever would,
just so they could dim it themselves, like a dull knife.

When the soft bodies became too hard of hearts,
someone told me that I was going to love again soon
but it was not the same. I do not hit my pillow when my head
becomes insomniac, thinking of their faces.
I love men who are as fragile as tea leaves and taste so
sweet: their hurts feel just like I am vomiting my breakfast.

No matter what I do, or who I am surrounded by,
I am still somewhat alone.
Alone in my mind, alone in my soul.

Solitude is not so bad.
It's when you are by your lonesome that you
can truly reflect.

You think about could haves
and should haves, regrets and mistakes. But you also
think back to your happiest days--the ones you forgot
to write about in your journal.

I walk down the empty sidewalks,hands deep in my
winter jacket's pockets, and sit
by myself at a park bench.

Yes, I am a lone flower who has yet to blossom.

constantly torn
between being here and trying to
make the best of it
and wanting to be 3,781.9 km
closer to her.
constantly torn
between not texting you back
and feeling guilty because
you’re drunk and you miss me.
constantly torn between
what I want to say
and what’s preventing me from
saying it.
constantly torn
between dipping my foot in
the ocean of freedom
and then pulling away when
the tide comes rushing in.
constantly torn between
noticing how much I remind myself
of you while also noticing
that I am nothing like you at all
and not knowing if that is good
or bad.
constantly torn between wanting
you to hold my hand every second
of every day, while also wanting
nothing more to do with you
ever again.
constantly torn between
remembering and forgetting
misplacing and replacing
trying and giving up
I’m just sad because I feel like
the word
enough
shouldn’t even exist.

The first snow
When it just starts to stick to the ground
Around nine o clock,
And the snow dances in the streetlights.
And the first thing you think of when you wake up
Is getting to walk in it's beauty.
That's her smile.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.

The first time a hug meant something.
You feel their arms,
Their shoulders,
Their warmth,
The tickle of their breath on the bottom of the left side of your neck,
And the last moment when they tighten around you
Into a solid, comforting fortress before they pull away.
That's the air she exhales.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.

The most devastating thunder storm.
When the rain is sad,
And not peaceful or light hearted,
And the echo of the cracks of thunder sting your ears.
And the lightening stops getting interesting,
The lightening looks worried.
It looks like suicidal tendencies.
That's what it's like to see her cry.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.

Battle fields.
Soiled with distraught courage,
Limp hopes,
And dying bravery.
Yet somehow holding the promise of a victory
That will effect hundreds of nations.
Those are her scars.
Yet she doesn't think it's beautiful.

The most perfect day on the beach.
Sandwiches without the sand,
Waves that kiss your toes,
Sun that blankets you with the feeling of security,
And a sunset so perfect
That you wonder if it's real,
Or just a calender's picture for the month of August.
That's her.
But she doesn't think she's beautiful.