So much to do but I’m mourning…
     Mourning.
Maybe it’ll get done in the morning

Good morning! you’re tuned into Power105–
  5-
  6-
November 6th
     —been a month already.

I’m still not ready to get up at 5
To speak at 6 in the morning…
      Dua Lipa doesn’t help the mourning.

It must be hidden in the spaces between:
all the things you never said—

Secret.

I feel about for signs of life—
An ember, an impression of a feeling;
Dust drifting off a thought
Ash floating off some feverish flame shyly
wafting through the open air, so
    Unassuming. It burns anyway(regardless).

My fingers grapple for the braille
That cryptic shape of you—

To me you are an amputated limb
Twitching in the ghostly space you used to be
(I could have sworn-)

"Real love hurts" they said.

They've seen me cry more times than I'd like to admit.

I watch the world move and it moves on
whether I participate or not.

The sun goes down behind my window and
I glimpse a sky alight with fire-
Across the world the land is burning;
Here at home I fret about the water bill.

My heart bursts from endless meditation:
on the things that it yearns for;
on the things it loves and the things it despises.
Most of all: itself, it seems.

Real love hurts, I'm reminded
of all the things I've been allowed to love;
All the times my heart ached so badly
I couldn't look away from it without fear
that it would fall apart completely.

Why is pain so often the most beautiful thing in you?

Another day is done and we pick back up in the morning,
collect the pieces that shook loose in the aftermath
of the upheavals of our hearts.
We'll put them back together again
in a way that almost makes sense
and move on and know, in good time,
that we're more beautiful now
for having been broken.

You laughed
but i didn't get the joke-
you always were the funny one
and i'm a child with a big mouth,
spewing words that taste like a summer
that was lovely-only-in-retrospect,
built on the backs of elephantine promises
never meant to be honored;
in fact, darling,
we poached them straight into extinction.
And I'm still waiting on the punchline.

I wonder sometimes at the ghosts that haunt your soul
Do you give them names?
Do you cower in their shade?
Do they whisper sweet nothings inside of you
waking echoes, long forgotten
like the artifacts of ancient loves?
Do you tie them down with weights for them to sink
into the dark
so those who seek them out should drown
before they ever reach your depths?
I would tell you that I am not afraid-
neither of the dark nor of the tides.
I only wish I could make friends
with the phantoms acting the part of you,
and soothe the storms that sink your spirit.

"Pyrophyte: a plant which has adapted to tolerate fire."

I try my best to fend off
these hungry jaws as they grow angry and lash out,
rising up from the dark to spite
the brave few sprouts of daylight
that dare to peak out of the night.
I want to let them starve in the shadows-
that shady selfish love that could never feed itself.
Let them rest
and rot and fester in their loneliness
til the bones are picked clean
and it can be beautiful again—
buds sprouting up from the wicked
black bones of a fire where once was a bountiful forest
and will be again

If I took off my skin
Maybe then I could feel beautiful.
I would change it every day
Like ***** laundry-
Hang it out to dry a while
And not fret for the neighbor's eyes.
I'd cut it into shapes
That don't fit quite so tightly
Or open up a window
And let a bit of air in
(I know me well enough-
I'd hold my breath.)

a friend told me
"we're only bodies."

molecules sewn together just right to
make the meat stick to the bone
keep the blood inside
keep the thoughts from wandering outside the hard case
soft parts inside not to be damaged
there, but never seen
         (except in thought which happens to happen
         just behind the eyes)
carefully written blueprints hidden
deep inside so small but makes up everything
that makes me
         even the parts I wish I could delete
         except there's not a backspace button
         away from the internet.

my feet take me places but never far enough.
i always find the same places again
over and over
the same old ground
the same old fears same old
errors in the coding:
why do I think those things?
why do I say those things?
who made me this way?
the cells remember,
keeping score of every time i bled
tick marks like attendance slips
to prove i showed up

         i was there
         i don’t know why but i was there

who are you?

You
upon whose skin comedies are written
in bruises and scars like graffiti on your heart
scrawled upon the walls in the language of
maddening imperfection.

You
who exhumes the bones of demons
from the graveyard growing
inside of you
the cemetery where you bury your grief.

who are you?
who rebels at the crimes,
self-inflicted, yet
cannot bring yourself to bury the hatchet
(a hurricane that refuses to be named.)

You
who has learned (to your sorrow)
that the world has teeth
and homes cannot be made
out of human beings.

You
who cannot help but idle
on the question
"what parts of me still function
properly?"

here’s the damnedest thing about “hopeless romantics”:

they’ll splinter their own bones into kindling
to build the fire that warms you,
as if putting a match to their insides
might cauterize the wounds
left behind by the greedy lovers and too-rough hands
that set their hearts to bleeding in the first place

you see, the poets spared no pains when they dubbed
the especially romantic “the hopeless”

they are hopelessly betrothed to the warfare,
the burning insanity
of a soul madly in love with love—
the way the heart rages against the brain.