I am dissolving like sea foam
on the surface of the universe
an unfolding flower
vast in an ocean of space
and time? it must be passing, and yet
it doesn't touch my skin
it whispers past, like the brush of death
a chaste kiss on the cheek
before stepping swiftly out the
already open door
into a world of swirling stars and galaxies
and here I sit, observing
all the world spinning around me
to the tempo of my beating and
still beating heart
and to this sound
time
comes to rest.

I am my best friend.
I will never trust another over me again.
After the long nights
and early mornings
and long trials of back-and-forth-ing,
I have studied myself and can promise one thing:
I know me more than you do.

So if you ever begin to think
I am missing something big
come and slip a note to me -
criticism is welcome, but I will choose what I take and leave.

I have my back
I hold the line
I trust my truth and have a spine
I'll defend my reputation against those friends
who weren't friends at all, in the end.

I'd rather be "alone" than have to pretend.
I'd rather be my own best friend.

They say there are meanings to the different colors
The ones she sends are red.
Because she loves with her whole heart,
with nothing left to spend.

It comes with no expectations
No subscript between the lines.
Genuine and honest,
simple love:
vulnerable and kind.

Everything we love, we will lose
The deeper it binds, the deeper it cuts
Should we not love a sunrise
because it is lost once the sun sets?
Look away from the beauty
So we are not as chilled, being left
in the dark, cold and alone?

No,
I can assure you
It is far better to see and be burned
than to never feel warmth at all.

Spirit is present even when I don't feel it
I am present even when I can't feel anything.
The food I cook still tastes good
Even if I can't taste it.
The words I read contain great stories
No matter how much the lines are blurred by tears.
The sunset is still beautiful
Despite its evasion in every photo
And the sunrise is even more beautiful still.

I feel like I have a superpower
when I descend into this empire of words
like a descent into a crypt of bones
yet it opens, like a flower, to my touch
to a world, hidden, a wonderland
of beauty, of passionate lust for
creation itself

I expect the lights to flicker
as the language tilts from my tongue
like lilting spells cast in ancient dreams
did they have power after all?
it flows over my fingertips
like honey, thick and sweet
nourishing, an ambrosia of life
and the purest of expression

vulnerability
cloaked in daggers of sharp curses
and disguised by images of broken glass
yet soft, underneath my feet, once I tread beyond the trees
I walk into the forest
and it welcomes me
it beckons me
further into the glade, I sink and
it's like slipping deeper underwater
yet I feel like I'm only breathing more air.

Isn’t there such a thrill
in knowing
I don’t have to listen to anyone
or do what they say
including myself?
“Stay in bed!” I say
“Lie down, sleep, and only sleep-“
and yet
here I am.

I don't understand how it must feel to have never questioned your own existence.

I stand at the sink, hot water scalding my skin as I scrub dried food from plates and forks.

I don't understand how it must feel to have never asked yourself the question, to have weighed the good and the waste in each hand.

The yard outside the window is frozen, painted in white, not a single breeze today. Maybe it'll finally melt the ice on the driveway.

Does everyone have moments of living that don't feel alive?

I dry the dishes.

Life seems duller, without you here
even as we wait
to meet.

I feel like I’m having
heart palpitations, gasping
for air, grasping for
anything
holding on
to sand that is slipping through my fingers
terrified of the time passing me by
so quickly,
and somehow

I can still focus on every grain as it falls
they each sparkle, in the light
before they’re gone

thousands of seconds and hours
days, slipping away
the crashing feelings of
loneliness, terror, of failure, for love
the heart cries out desperately
seeking an answer, a permanence,
to stop the bleeding

but the only answer is to fall into it.

To accept the change, the flow, and
move with it:

let yourself, and your heart
feel everything -
leave it exposed on your sleeve
so you are not a numb observer
but find yourself in every grain as it falls
and while you mourn, be grateful
you held it for even a moment at all.

We seek absolution
meaning,
forgiveness
when it does not need to be "found" at all.

The point of love, of trust, we witness
is that it is free -
free from strings attached,
free from forced bent knees.

If it comes at a cost,
unwrap it, and see clearly:
the attached price tag is enough
to reveal its inauthenticity.

Beware of cloaked expectations,
control disguised as love.
A pure heart should be the only price paid
for love.

Be resolute in your search,
and return to those who give freely:
only these true gemstones are worth keeping
and calling good company.

How do you fit so much meaning
into such little space?

Like all my love
in one kiss

or all the world
in mere paint.

You have my whole heart
I can’t believe I found all the pieces
broken off over the years
to give to you.
Don’t make me regret it,
my love.

Solivagant,
a lonely
vapor
a single molecule of water
rising up into the sky

It wanders, to-and-fro
pushed around by
winds and whims and woes, and
prays to find another soul
and yet it continues rising.

Hopeless, the movement
repetitive, the verses
just remnants, pieces
of thoughts that are
broken and
fractured
they can't be seen by fuller eyes.

It shouts into the void
no lips, no tongue, no teeth with which
to make a sound, it
reaches out and
has no hands with which
to grasp.

And yet, still it rises
and time and time again
it comes to find
its purpose is revealed in
the end.

I often remember, and remember fondly
how the fog rose off the surface of the water
in great tall fingers reaching for the sky-
when it was almost still night, the sun making barely a shadow
and the cool kiss of dew on my skin
from the humid air
as even the breeze had not yet awoken.

I remember how the boats and oars
looked so vibrant in their color
as that gray shroud of morning sleepiness
laid a drowsy shade over the greens and blues
with a gentle hand.

They were red and yellow
and as we glided quietly towards the sunlight,
sparkles rippling alongside the waterbugs
and I thought to myself
this all I would ever hope for.

A twinge of regret is always present
as we pass the paths that should have -
could have - been,
and see the keychains
from places we've never seen,
on other passenger's bags, and
jealous, we tear our tickets
and wish we had listed
a different destination,
wonder what it would have taken
as others do the same
from their seats.

We step gently,
for few stones
are seen above the surface:

deep or shallow
no one knows
yet just one slip seems fatal.

Restrained by fear
we name it
“Patience,” keeping us alive.

Avoid our own
reflection
or maybe just stranger’s eyes.

We like the dark
shut the blinds
“ignorance is bliss,” they say.

Why take the leap,
risk it all,
on a meager shred of faith?

I hope you do.
You may find
it’s been shallow all this time.

I was not built to be made so, so numb.
I was not built to withstand
the devastation of this apathy:

Apathy belongs to those who have cut off their ears
blinded their eyes
who speak their own molten dreams,
believing only the truths they have found in their shadows

they yell the loudest so they may hear themselves,
they draw attention so others may see
the spectacle they themselves cannot

I beg you,
do not become numb.
Do not cut off your ears or blind your eyes.
Take in all of this world, as much as you can
before it is too dark for you to see.

Apathy to death brings apathy to life.
Please, open your eyes:
Find your love
and feel your grief.
And know everyone else can feel it, too.

The opposite of fear, of death, of apathy -
the only thing we can do to heal our wounds
is to relentlessly share more love.

I can hold my own hand
to pull myself out of this grave

The shovel could be yours, or mine
But I will climb out alone.

Returning
is like donning an old, familiar cloak
Heavy, and somehow still warm
though it hasn’t been worn,
despite its wear,
in ages.

The years under my eyes
slip off my shoulders, like
rolling drops of rain
As decades of a different kind
settle in my mind,
Feeling like wisdom might
though it could just as well be
simple vanity.

I imagine myself to be
different,
Not arrogant enough to envision
what I ought to be,
But merely something better, at least
than what the mirror sees.

I avoid looking at my reflection.
I hold my breath
like plunging under water
when I turn to face the miles remaining
that I must tread
a second time.

The ice, that ice-
It chills me to the bone
As I sink under,
it freezes my lungs
and paralyzes the breath inside them-

And yet, I pull the coat around me tighter,
smelling of mothballs from the back of the closet
digging my nails into the fur fabric
I force my eyes to open.

Beyond the darkness I imagined,
there is, of course, still light:
From between my lashes, I glimpse myself
and find I am still, no longer trembling-
And though I am not beautiful,
and even this curious look
somehow exposes every piece of me
which lacks perfection
And I remember what it used to be
And

I take a breath,
I let the surface of the water calm.
I reach deep inside for comfort,
and meet the small voice
who trusts I can return there again.
Maybe I will be wiser the second time around.

I’m suffocating
And I can feel the noose tight around my neck
Choking, gasping
I don’t recognize the hands
The skin is old, the nails *****
As if from digging out of their own grave
I reach up, and grasp
And feel the rope slipping from between my fingertips
The hands are my own
But I cannot feel
I can’t feel anything but
The bite of knife tips against my skin
Imagined, or not
I can feel it
Etching lines like
Fault lines across ceramic
I am untempered glass
On the verge, waiting to shatter
I am shattering
Shuddering, shaking
Shattered
And waiting in the silence
For when I can no longer hold my breath
The small breeze
Will blow the fragments and dust away

I can feel fire at my fingertips
the heat of all I want to do
it coalesces before me
forging myself into who I want to be
finally seeing clearly,
wiping clean the fogged mirror:
WHO I AM.

I am everything I’ve ever wanted to be
and still, I am not yet all that I’ve dreamed to be

that hope for more
is the best part.

Everyone is their own narrator, and by necessity, write themselves as the hero in their own story. But every story requires a villain. You cannot control what your role will be in them all. But you can control what is written in yours.

I am certainly an enemy to many. I have been a bad friend, I have said hurtful words, and I have done harmful things. But I have to hope that I have, and continue to, become a better, more worthy hero. If I didn’t - there would be no point in continuing to read, would there?

Change isn't some grand, sweeping gesture,
like being love-bombed to mask objectification
Change will not hide underneath layers of success
rows of green lights and red ribbons
Change is found instead
in the dirt.

In the grime of self-doubt
when fear and shame builds up underneath your fingernails
and anger feels like the hot sun beating on the back of your neck -
guilt that fuels the fire in your gut
that you are even standing in this
stupid, deep, endless, hopelessly endless
pit in the first place.

Change starts with a discovery:
that the marks in the walls are from the shovel at your feet.

But the shovel is still there.
So what will you do next?

Even if every move feels like the wrong one,
it is better than staying where you are
and waiting for the water seeping in to rise when it rains.

Healing isn't linear
It's obvious when we say it,
but it slips our mind as we are blinded
by the steep walls and cliffs
of the mountain ahead.

Cliffs waiting to be scaled
looking insurmountable
Turning to find another path
feels like turning back to quit.

Spending a night in the midst of the deep foliage,
vines twining around limbs, digging thorns into our spines
Feels not like a rest before fighting another day
but falling into a sleep that will never end.

But eventually
winding and twisting and
climbing up boulders, then
sliding back in the gravel
only to do it again
and again

The summit will appear over the edge,
and the sun will rise on your first day
on the top of the mountain
above the weight of all those memories.

You will still find thorns in your shoes
every now and then,
but you will always be able to look back
at the great mountain that you climbed
the great trials that you faced
and find pride in what you have overcome.

Does everyone feel like
Happiness requires discipline,
Or is it just me?

Truthfully, we are our actions
Not our accomplishments.
We exist in
Being
Not in doing.
In living the same day
As every day,
In having happiness in each repetition
And not trapping our contentment
Beyond the horizon,
We can finally be
Happy.

I have strived in earnest
at many an affectation,
played my hand, and found
the cards were not dealt in my favor.

I have considered myself an intellectual,
esteemed, yet trying to be
frugal in my pride
I shied away from arrogance
and found I lacked the spine, or the eyes
to see what words of mine
could stand alone
beside the shoulders of greats.

This is not to be self-disparaging;
on the contrary, it is quite limiting
to believe you have no limits
for when the results come in, and the chips are down
who can be blamed but yourself?

No, I do not fancy myself
some seer of politics or
wordsmith of old,
I am too impatient
to sift the extent of knowledge in my hands,
I dump in the whole bag of flour
mix, and hope for the best.

So here I sit:
enjoying the feeling
of words running over my tongue
and within the bones of my fingers,
the scratch of a pen
beside the sound of birds
in the early morning.

To many, it is not much
but to me, it is enough
to consider myself a
simple poet
with nothing to share
but my condolences
for the ones who cannot create freely.

The magic doesn’t come from
having the strength of will
to push down all other thoughts
of comfort, of wants
to cancel out all but The One Thing:
the Magic comes from
hearing yourself,
hearing all those
thoughts, and wants, and prayers
from deep inside your soul
and even those from the surface of your skin
and, after hearing them,
turning your attention back to
The One Thing
because you choose to.

If you chase an empty mind, it will be filled
with the chasing, with the lack of silence:
try instead to choose to focus-
and keep choosing,
every day.

The sound of that focus,
The One Thing
will grow so loud
it will drown out all else,
and all the universe will fall into step with you.

All I want is to be held, be loved - to be seen
Is that too much to ask?

Is some part of me so bright? Anyone who looks
turns away with closed eyes.

Like an eclipse, I am as lonely as the moon
never loved as I love.

I reach out with empty palms, grasping, waiting, and
find an emptier heart.

When you finally make it
to the height of your dreams
and it is just as bland, flawed, and tedious
as they all said it would be
and it is perfect.

My joy is not born from
all the highlighted phrases and favorite moments
but instead grows in
all the space in between.

Halloween is the one time of the year
all the ghouls and demons and ***** creatures
can come out to play.

No one glances at the
bulging eyes or wild horns
as the kids play
among former beings of the night.

In the early dusk evenings
among cracking leaves
sounding like flames licking neighborhood streets,
I see peace in the flickering eyes of a
children's jack o' lantern,
not startled by
the ghost I am
as I slip by.

I focus on others instead of myself
their actions, their words, their votes, their thoughts
I am losing my mind, filling the space
with anything I can find,
filling that aching emptiness, feeding the craving with
Belonging
Belonging to the wave,
we are so great, so powerful, together
Belonging
to a movement that can be nothing but just and righteous
I am also just, I am also righteous, I am also strong -
our hand moves as one
to drop our papers in the ballot box
to sign the petition
to tear down the sign
to throw the bottle
to smash the car
to shove the man
to pull the trigger -
what has happened to me?
I don't know who I am.

I don't think I ever did.

I am lost, lost and drowning,
drowning in this sea of right and wrong
the lights are off, I can't see one from the other in the dark:
finally, a light I can swim to! finally, a hand I can reach-
and reaching out

I find comfort. I find peace. I find strength
because here, I belong
in the hand of God.

If left alone
when unhealed
when the wounds still ferment beneath the skin
it will boil in your blood,
flood your veins
and you will suffocate
in the aloneness

But if surrounded
once you’ve healed
once you’ve scraped out the infected tissue
And the scabs cover you, growing what is new
if you are surrounded
by infection, invasive vines and flowers
with thorns in their touch
sweet scents
tinged bitter in the air
the air you breathe
you will become poisoned
and drown also

But if you heal
And escape the grasp of uncaring hands
Oh, how you can bloom

Among wretched hearts
and with gnashing of teeth-
no, I don't know why I can't fall asleep
I'm twisted in sheets
aching for love
knowing no one will come for me.

The mind is so startlingly manipulative,
it is as if every time I reconsider
my considering
I must hold a seance in my own head:
To whom am I speaking now?
Are you angry, are you sad?
Why do you haunt this home so?
Do you not know
if you only let go,
you just might leave the door open
for someone kind to move in?

By candlelight, I write to you
my Dearest
pens the hands of so many
ancient, yet still living, loves
from times
now only of memory.

Wives, and husbands
and lovers, to daughters
to friends
turned heartbreakers
how such drama unraveled over months
of ship travels!

What a slow, painful
falling apart, or coming to life:
oh, what could have grown from such
a meaningful spark

started by one letter.
A mere penstroke
sent with love,
on faithful winds.

When I die
I want my ashes to be emptied into the sea
so I may touch every shore
and reach into every place I’ve ever been.
I want no grave
let me rest in the entire world.

I remember waking up on Saturday mornings
to watch the reruns
of my favorite tv shows,
or staying up late at night
so I didn’t have to record
the finale I was waiting on,
for what felt like
years.

It’s the same feeling I get now
putting my makeup on
picking what colors to wear,
checking the weather
when I reread our texts, thinking ahead
hoping against hope
this one will go better.

Every date is a rerun
a replay, the same night
by a different name
and the heartbreak feels
the same
as my stomach twists and I realize
you, again, saw this
as just a game.

Every chance
I let hope fly
like an arrow loosed from a quiver
I’ve always had an itchy trigger finger
aiming for love,
though I miss every time.

And though it hurts,
and I’m bandaged and bruised
from weeks and years
of valentine’s blues
I dust it off and try again;
one of these days,
my original will air.

I need to prove -
what, I do not know
to whom, I do not know
I have such a need to
prove myself fitting the definition,
the standard
of those who
hold no standard to me, in reality
I need to prove
nothing
I can be everything.

Being hurt by someone who doesn’t mean it
is easy to forgive
But being hurt by someone who refuses to say only
“I’m sorry”
is the hardest thing to forgive
Because you will still feel like it’s your fault.

It isn’t.
I promise.

Weighing the scales of
time and regret:
it wouldn’t be balanced if we had
one without the other,
now would it?

You cannot escape regret
trying to flee has steep costs;
you will drown in the time you’ve lost-
but
keeping the balance
between your hopes and your loss,
once the scale rusts
you may find yourself pleased, after all.

We crave to quiet the cessations of the mind
desperate to hear the voices of the blessed, the voices of the ******
yet in the silence
it is our own we hear, crying out
for the cloth to be torn from our eyes
so we may see clearly every second
all we can.

Finding beauty in the ordinary: it is like
being guided by the light of the stars
trusting in the beckoning fluorescence ahead
tracing the paths lit up between high clashing waves
choosing a direction, just as much as
being chosen
after all, any is better than drowning,
movement keeps you alive, rather than than staying still, unchanging
we all swim in this grand ocean, perpetual
particles, lost, floating
guided by the light we see.

To see the space where it used to be
is like watching a surgeon's knife slip cleanly
through whole, unbroken skin
so sharp it appeared to split of its own volition,
as if it already knew what was coming
and split into its pieces even before the blade fell.

To see what had been,
and be burdened by the knowledge of
what it was, what it could have been, what it was going to be -
it is like
staring into the deepest darkness
after being overcome by the sun
after seeing the great vastness of the world
and having its image reprinted on the burned backs of eyelids
blinding completely in its disappearance.

To see the shards on the floor
and remember how smooth and cold it felt,
like death
the ceramic slipping through the kindest,
gentlest fingers
who truly did not mean any harm
and yet, with not even time for a cry
she was shattered before anyone could
remember her name.

I know the pattern of a losing battle for love, intimately,
because it has snuck up on me so many times
I know how the floorboards creak under his footsteps
as he steals my heart with gentle whispers
never to return it again.

I crave the days
when frost kisses my toes through my boots
and the few leaves left on trees
flutter down to
crunch, deliciously,
under my feet.

I miss the memories of
leaning into the wind,
letting it fill the gaps in my coat and
thinking, just maybe, I could fly.

Hot sips of drinks
between my lips,
filling my throat and lungs
with a warmth irreplaceable.

A season of change, but of calming
of settling into ones skin
metamorphosis and yet
simple enjoyment
of all the little things.

I held the mirror up to myself
and what did I see,
but mirrors upon mirrors upon mirrors
a thousand arms of kali suffocating and tearing
I see and see and cannot see behind the veil
layers of reflections
they speak to me,  and out of my mouth comes others' voices
I cannot hear a thing
I must be must be must be must be
something else
what, I do not know
in the eyes of those who aren't watching

I need the phantoms to see
what I cannot:
me.
I forget
I can see myself
without my eyes.

Jealousy is
a sneaky beast

With her crescent claws
and dripping fangs

She climbs her way inside your veins
a hidden threat

She sneaks inside
she nests in pain

Pretends to hide
in angry veins

Blood pumping, it's copper-tasting
lying awake

Sleepless nights of
convincing frights

Assigning fault
high as a kite

Her venom is swift, when she bites -
who tries to fight?

How could you, when it feels like she's
protecting you?

In the second before it shatters, it is as if the world is quieter
paying respects in the moment before it all happens

though truthfully, no one knows it is coming
it is not as if the volume is muted

it feels, as it slips
so cold, so much colder than it was
like shaking hands with death
as if the last grasp on its edges
is the clinging to life of a dead man's hand,
his fingers curling around your own
just before

the shatter of ceramic
it is deafening.

It was not emphasized by surrounding silence,
in fact
it was surrounded, even overcome by the noise around it
but for even a moment, no one paused
for even a breath
no one saw how it shattered her
in that moment

that was all it took.

I didn’t need a savior.
But you needed to be one.

When I didn’t want you to fix me
When I was no longer an easy solution
When I just wanted you to be there for me
When I just needed someone to sit in the dark
with me,
And leave the flashlights off
To listen to the shadows with me
When I know, you couldn’t really hear them
But I could
When all I needed was your presence.
You decided that was too much to ask.

It was too hard to be there
Without speaking
It was too hard to speak
Without judging
It was too hard to judge
Without blindness, hypocrisy, arrogance:
You had to be the savior, so generous
life-saving
for me, because, look-
how broken am I
forcing vulnerability for you.

It was too much
to accept the validity of merely being kind.
You wouldn’t accept the lowly title,
of being only
my friend.