every morning at 8:13am, she texts me
“the birds by my window keep my mind running
at 5:20am, just like the way you’ve captured me.
every thought at 2:57am sounds like a prayer if
i think hard enough, but i’m afraid god is gonna hear
me this time. i have this obsession with circles and
i don’t think my life is on the right path.”

but all my mother ever taught me to answer was:
“maybe god will hear me this time because lately,
my heart’s been playing jump rope whenever
i see your name light up on my phone. i pray every
night at 2:56 in the morning so maybe one day,
i’ll be in your mind and god will hear you say my
name in your voice.”
the birds are a present from me, i’m sorry.

she swore by her five inch heels
that the city lights ran through her veins.
her mother complained about
how she strutted through the doors smelling
like my neck.
i told my father about the way
she smiles when i call her “my little darling” in
cold hours of 2am when she rolls onto my shoulder.
i told my mother about how she rubs my spine with her paint-brush
fingers, hoping to turn my back into a starry night by
van gogh; she’s my shooting star.
her diaphragm syncs to the bass kick of “wanderlust”
and i think i fell in love with her adventure; it’s
not even the weekend yet.

she asked me about my past and the only thing i could tell her
was that the devil is paying me double to see you smile.

I was going to write a poem
telling how beautiful you are.
but it would be an injustice to the world's self-esteem
to immortalize such concepts.

she says -
if i carve your name onto my ribcage in the morning before the sun comes up will it come true? will it **** you this time?
maybe ill lie down so that you can pick me apart,
fingernails breaking on my iron skin
would you like that?

They say it’s okay in the end.
But I can think of so many times
when it wasn’t.
Or maybe that’s what death says
when he takes your hand.
”It’s okay…”

I'm sorry, everyone.
I hopped on the Internet
Hoping that I could produce
Something beautiful, deep,
And heartbreaking for all of you to read
And enjoy.
Unfortunately,
In the words of fangirls,
I can't even.
I have nothing. NOTHING.
Nothing for my poetry,
Nothing for my prose,
Nothing
At
All.
If you people I don't and do know
Realize this feeling of
Suddenly coming to the edge of the world of writing
(Which I didn't even know was flat)
And just STANDING there
Staring into the black empty
That is absolute nothingness...
Well, make me a sympathy card, okay?
Because I can't write today.
I've got nothing.
So, if you're looking for something
That is not a piece of crap
Coming from the brilliant mind of this author?
Feel disappointment.

and now we’re standing in a dark room full

of colors and we left our morals in the bowl

with our only means of leaving. we started 

singing lyrics to songs we didn’t know,

but we got lost in the beat so nothing

else really mattered; we became our own beat

and you couldn’t help but smile at my

mistakes because i laughed at yours.

and when you leave, you couldn’t help

but care for my safety and i couldn’t 

even make you smile but mine was sufficient

enough. i can give you heaven, darling.

and it’s just so hard to think when my brain

is full of making pictures about how the sky

would look in your eyes

and how the ocean smells

on your breathe and how the sun looks 

when it alters your hair. tell me

when it’s appropriate that i hold your skin

without wandering wallowing away with

nowhere to head but the top of mine.

play with my words and pick out each syllable

you hate and throw it in the ocean, i need to

hear the waves speak to me at least once.

hold on to my memories because

i want your dna on them, i want to know what it

feels like to intertwine you within my brain.