Other times I kiss the northern winds, let them dance with my curls while caressing my curves. Drifting me away, a feather in a gentle tornado towards vague, dreamlike, foreign lands.  

& in other occasions I belong wholeheartedly to the moon. She's my favorite intimate lover, the most passionate of all. Her dark mysteries keep me addicted to the light she steals from the sun.

Then when the sun takes me, lights me up, burns me, sweet sweet fire, as he embraces me. A Phoenix coming back to him over & over. Naked scars & whispers of warm love, poems that tell me he shines for me, keeps the soil under my feet warm for me, tells me he lives for me.

All the while the ocean waits patiently for me to yet again submerge myself in the chaos of its storms. Maybe all the salt water in the oceans are just tears that've been shed waiting for lovers to embrace its madness. Oceans long for fearless lovers, lovers that fear not the wrath of its solitude and forbidden passion.

& once in a blue moon I sit in silence & succumb to the unknown. Most of the time words fail me and I can't describe the way I unwrap myself in the darkness. Dark matter, the ether, my intangible lovers living in the same place. There's an art to losing yourself in places like these.

Sometimes I belong to you, but for the most part, I belong to myself.

I am a rib
pulled out from your cage.
I am the apple
pressed against your lips.
I am the warmth
within your breath.
The sweet nectar
on your fingertips.
Your heart was made
but your soul was mystic.
The otherworldly flow
of spirit
within boundless space.
A warrior of flesh and blood
inside a
mirror-image
of my face.
"bone of my bones
and flesh of my flesh;"
What is this you have done?
You,
my demise but still
I become the mother
of all the living.
For the dust I am,
I will return.

You can see bones in her slender neck—
like ******* knuckles gripping the back
of a dining chair.


She hums a love song while staring at the pages of a romance
novel, grey tea cooling beside her, sun fading from the room.


Her canary dropped dead in its cage. The mailbox hasn’t been
checked for days…

She has ‘Once upon a time’ tattooed on the inner lining
of her lungs, ‘Happily ever after’ carved in each finger-bone.

She is the one roses wilt for—the ghost of a fairy tale left
to a room with only the memory
of birdsong.

You broke your little girl.

You dropped her head
in a boiling ***
and the pressure
broke her skull.

Fished her out
and set her
in the sun to
dry and dry and dry.

Your neglectful hands
left her there to turn
the color of things
trapped between train tracks.

And now she exists.
You can hear her
but you don’t understand
what she’s screaming.