this is an alphabet of all the people
who have dug holes in me,
and of all the people
who are still digging.

this is a gardening guide
for would-be lovers and pretty faces
who do not even realize
that they are carrying shovels.

this is a weather forecast written
from past experience,
a reminder that winter
is not kind on crops,
no matter how firmly you pack the dirt.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds planted.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds left to die.

A,
i suppose it is fitting that the first letter
is also the first person to show me what it is like
to have seedlings sprouting up from inside you,
the first person to show me just how deep you really have to dig
to make the sting last.
you never came back to water what you planted.

H,
i’d like to say to that i ripped out your roots with my own two hands;
i’d like to give myself some credit in all this.
you don’t look as lovely as you used to.
you say i’ve grown distant.
i’m sorry.

J,
you always feel like being on the verge of something big.
you feel like summer, like a deep purple,
a bath of darkness.
you are everywhere that plants do not grow well.
and i have always felt — and still do feel — 
that that is such a grave injustice.
still, though you cannot speak the word “devotion,”
i beckon for more seeds.

P,
my greatest heartbreak.
heartbreak, though, is but a flesh wound when seen from afar.
and so i thank god for the miles between us.
i can feign forgetfulness when you are far away.
after all, what is a shovel in your hands if those hands cannot reach me?

S,
you are but a bud waiting to bloom.
and yet again i find myself so very afraid of growth.

(a.m.)

What does your silence taste like?
If distance was a melody how would it sound?
Do you also wish to unlock the doors inside your own mind
And release yourself from that airless prison?

If I told you my mind feels empty
And words lost their meaning
Would you relate?
Would you ask me a trivial question?
Only to break the wall

Round and round on a mary go round
This is just simple child's play
There's only a slight chance that the grass is greener on the other side

When you come around
You are smiling so hard
And joy is manifesting the air around you

Growing up will never seem real
Just like when we were walking through the park the other day and you looked up at me
I saw you ten years ago on that swing set
I remember asking if you wanted to get ice cream with me because it was such a hot day
I was young and didn't know better

Our bills are late and we are scrounging
Living check to check was something you thought you would stop doing after moving out of your mother's house

I remember the first time I took you out to dinner
You refused to let me pay for you
and then when I went to hold your hand you flenched
because the last man that grabbed your hand was your stepfather
and he wasn't doing it to comfort you like I was

Days turned to nights and your tears never seemed to go away
I couldn't stop apologizing and telling you that it was all my fault

I am so sorry that I could not give you more

I remember seeing your face as it went through the window
My knees were stuck under the steering wheel and I couldn't move my neck, but I still saw that iconic glimmer in your eye
Tragedy is beautifully terrifying
Only good will come from this

We seemed to fight through it all, why give it all up now?
We were just starting to find our way out of the labyrinth, and I hadn't smoked one single cigarette in three months

Five months after that I see you and your new lover at the same park we used to take walks in
I am writing this in shambles at 3am in my apartment
I am on my fifth cigarette

We were like peas and carrots, but I was not sweet enough
I was always pushing for us
You never stopped giving up

There is beauty in pessimism just like there is beauty in the sun
The moon is as optimistic as the stars; maybe, just maybe we will see the sun rise

Becoming human does not require
Writing sad or dark poetry.
Rather, it requires rejoicing
Amongst the darkness
That can so easily
Encapsulate us all.

this is not a death-wish
this is a resurrection.
on nights, you grow
weary of the sound of
your own breathing,
there is a fierce sun
burning inside you,
you must use it to grow,
not to scorch all you have.
you have tender hands,
why do you use them
to peel away your
conscious?
there is a thunder in
that insipid heart of yours,
go, forage it out.