I want my words to be beautiful.
Beautiful like yours.
I want to see ordinary things,
Find the magic in them,
And put the magic on a page, for everyone to understand.

I want to have a way with words.
I want every poem of mine
To become a masterpiece.
Just like yours.

I am not broken.

But you are.

You see the world through pain,
And pain makes the colors brighter.
It makes the value of feelings
Climb higher.

Sometimes I wonder
If I should be broken like you
If I want my words to resonate
Like yours.

Sometimes I wonder,
If it will be truly worth it
In the end.

I wonder what it will be like,
To cut myself up to pour out the beauty inside me.

Just like you.

I imagine that you
Raise the blade
Slice your feelings open
And write your masterpiece
In red.

Isn’t physically quick or agile.

Disappears in libraries.

Has been known to dissolve into the physical pages of books.

Is good at tucking herself into the stacks and retreating to reading nooks.

Blends in at coffee shops where her voice can be drowned out by the grinding and the steaming.

Can become indistinguishable in the dark of theatres, in the quiet shuffle of art galleries, the finger-snapping of poetry readings, the hum and jostle of the Tube.

Is indistinct. Adept at hiding in plain sight.

I hate not knowing a dream
From a memory.
Like is that tattoo on your shoulder
Real?
You're too distant for me to test it gently.
My hand even shakes at the thought
Of its flesh reuniting with yours
Oh god,
My fingers whimper like dogs,
Begging for more.

But there's nothing to touch.

I think I've been here before
But your things are a bit fuzzy,
Like the drawings on your door
That I never laid attention to.
This night can't be real
Because it's going too well.
But I'll keep up the charade
Even though, I know, your eyes are gray
Not blue.
I'll pretend not to notice a little longer.

Maybe I should have stayed asleep.

Dreams leave me hungry for the real
Taste of you
That I won't wake up to.
I can't remember your precious voice but
Before I woke up you said,
"Moving on for me is just as hard."
But I knew that statement couldn't be true
Even from a dreamed you.

Honestly I should've seen this coming,
Because when you spend your life sending people on a chase sooner or later they just stop running,

And I wish I could voice all of my emotions that consume my insides,
But they'd rather stay silent and so away they hide,

I want to know your last word before your very first,
Because then when you leave my heart will not burst,
For every hello there is always a goodbye,
Because time will not stop no matter how hard we try.

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.