there's no poetry between us
in the inches of soil and grass that add milage to the distance
there is no tragic stanza
no iambs to recount and consider
no melody
my heart has a break in it
a faultline unabridged
your spaces are defective.
there's no poetry between us
i don't think there ever was

You're like a punctuation mark
on my vocal cords.
Making me reconsider my shaking breath.
Wondering what my words will be as I say them.
So unsure of the skin on my fingers.
Unsure if it will singe your skin
with my self-doubt and deprecation.
and my dwindling eyesight on love.
making me reconsider who i am
and indefinitely who I've been
You are the hitch in my ribcage.
The adjacent lungs in my body
withering
finding oxygen in gas chambers.
and debating on it's validity.

nervousness
is a disease imbedded in my veins
blackening my lungs
shaking my legs
and shaking down the leaves of my reason tree.
falling to the ground without the season's beckon.

a disorder
calmed only by pretty pills
and deep breaths that my therapist
says will help gather air in my depleting lungs

drowning in my incertainty
the deep breaths I take choke.
The pills make things harder to swallow.


There is no cure for me.
I am anxiety.
A product of an uprooted childhood.
I'll manage and dig up my soil
and till my rows and plant myself
a more soild ground.

the monster you see staring back at you does not define you
it never did

Christmas lights blur in streaks of neon lines
the chill of the air tints the sky a shade of blue
that matches the heart shaped bruise he gave her
the temperature drops with her stomach
leaving room for words left lingering
mingling with the smell of firewood and with
canceling eyes that sent their ship sinking in the Atlantic of the last month

time eroded their hearts and morphed
them into fossils
once quick and erratic
now suspended in the frost bitten air.

what is my home if home isn't home anymore
whats a house full of locked memories pushed
to the side in decaying cardboard boxes
gathering dust with my whispered scary stories of a place called home
whats a house without beating hearts?
a cemetery.
a house of the walking-drained
I find it incredibly ironic that the place I'm living in is killing me
suffocating me with echoing words and ghosts that linger despite the blinds being wide open
home was temporary and then mailed and lost
amongst letters to Santa and I'm sorry cards never read and bills and taxes divorce papers and trial hearings, court cases and prescriptions expired
home is written on my heart in scars and on my tongue leftover from the unuttered phrases and cries only to be heard by the moonlit room of my brick walls
home is a factory
routine assembly line of insults and prying questions and denials that are cast on the floor crunching beneath my feet
this house I am residing in is not a home
how could it be
when the mirrors are plastered up with this-is-what-you-must-do and unanswered questions only to be replied with excuses of uncertainty and disabling fear, swirling, fogging up my vision
home is where my heart burns and my legs ache.
there's no safe haven
not in this house.
not even behind dead bolts and lock and secrets of the mind
home isn't home