'...I got dumped for not spending time with my ex-girlfriend  because I was in the library all the time pretending to study. I haven't told her that I was pretending to study yet.'

my darling,
you were my heaven -
hallowed be thy veins.
thy kingdom come, my affection won.
your love, though a hellfire, was heaven.
give me a chance to clear my head.
forgive me, for not recognizing
your voice among the masses,
as i forgive those who break my trust.
lead me not into isolation
but deliver me from myself.
for thine is the space
here in my ribcage
forever & ever.
amen.

- m.f.

sometimes i wonder if god keeps a record
of all the times i have been left,
all the times i have been unable to leave.
i wonder if he thinks to himself,
"when will she learn?"
as if he feels my heartache too.
i picture god with a furrowed brow,
hunched over a typewriter,
beginning me again and again,
a mountain of crumpled paper at his feet.
but somehow -
he always ends up at the same point in the story
where i am all ****** palms
and half-hearted hallelujahs
propped up on bruised knees.
spitting up blood & teeth at his feet screaming,
"IS THAT ALL YOU'VE GOT?"
but he doesn't answer.
and i catch myself wondering if the silence
is his way of punishing me for making a deity out of you.
after all, the bible says he is a jealous god.
i could've sworn there was a verse somewhere
that said you weren't allowed to love anyone other than me.
but now that i think about it,
i probably took it out of context.
if i could add a parable to those already existing,
it would be how your chest
felt like church under my head,
and how i thought to myself,
"this is how it would be if he loved me back."
or how you fled my bedroom like a crime scene.
i am still bleeding.
i won't tell you how many times
i cracked my heart in half
trying to be what you wanted.
how my lips on your skin felt judas.
now i am waiting for god to begin me once more,
hoping he'll leave you out of the plot this time
because i don't think i could stand to lose you again.
see, rumor has it he knew you'd leave
and has been trying to make it up to me
since before we'd even met.
my song is one of repentance.
the wood finish from abandoned pews
rotting under my fingernails.
i made sacrifices you didn't ask for.
i have never known
whether my inability to abandon people
is more a strength or a weakness
but so far everyone i've ever loved
has turned into an exit wound,
and myself into a flickering no vacancy sign.

- m.f.

this is an open letter to anyone who has the audacity to try and love you like i did.

dear whateverthefuckyournameis,

i apologize in advance for spilling my boiled blood on the hem of your skirt. what you need to understand, is that you are standing on ground previously reserved for my feet, so forgive me for any bitterness that seeps through the cracks in my clenched fists. i don't hate you, but i can't be your friend. you probably don't know about me, and if you do, let me commend your bravery. i have a tendency to set my problems on fire, and in my bouts of anger everything looks flammable, especially girls with paper complexions. i'm sorry. i have never been one to walk away, so i don't know how to explain to you the holes in the bottoms of my shoes. but i have been further than you will ever go. this is not supposed to be an angry letter, but lately that's the only thing coming out of me. i don't even know your name but the thought of your hands reaching for him makes we want to break them. i will douse your dreams in gasoline and strike the match against your cheek. but i know that's not right, see, the poison crawling out from the end of my pen belongs to a scarier version of myself i try not to know. my heartache is an insatiable war cry in the dead of night, that will stop at nothing to shatter all your windows. it shames me to admit that i've found a sort of twisted satisfaction in using passive aggression to breach your armor. i am sick with missing a set of arms i was not privileged enough to know. i speak with all the grace of an atom bomb and wonder about the rubble at my feet. you are white picket fence and i am barbed wire. some girls are lions, some are lambs, and i learned to love, teeth bared and snarling. one of the only things that keeps me going is the hope that one day i'll learn how to love something without making it bleed. i may have never been his, but for a time he was mine, so please understand why i taste acid when i think about your mouth on his. again, i am sorry. i know it is not my place to be so full of resentment, but there is a part of me that sincerely hopes it bothers you to know he dreamt of me before you were even a thought. there is a side of me that thrives on the image of the color being drained from your face when you read this. but i am trying to learn how to be softer. this letter is the manifestation of a self-inflicted war that has been raging in my chest since he first told me about you. you will try to be good to him, and you might even succeed. if you ever find yourself singing him to sleep, like i did, don't ask if he wants to hear another song, just keep going until his breathing slows.

- m.f.

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

I think I loved you most the winter your heating was broken
And we’d stay inside all morning
Pretending to complain that we couldn’t get out of bed
Our clothes becoming little islands on the floor,
Ones that we could not quite find the courage to visit

Your hand stayed glued to my hip,
Your breath warming my shoulder
Like a long drag of whiskey
That kind that had a home so far away,
In a glass bottle on top of your refrigerator.
The one that would not be opened
Until that fateful day in February,
When everything went wrong

And on that unbearable night
When you joked that you’d freeze to death if I left you
There was a long silence
Like it might be true.

Now it’s warm enough
That I show too much skin when sitting in bars
And you avoid me like the plague,
Whispering in any girl’s ear that’s near to you
Every time you see me watching out of the corner of your eye

We should have stayed inside when the ice began to melt
Because I think
When those doors opened and we finally ventured outside
The world had changed,
And so had you and I.

here's how it happens
the morning after
you reach into the drawer
where the your t-shirts live
to find it austere
you'll shrug because
you're still drunk
& you can't remember
when last it was
that you had something wet
or how long it's been
since you made the floorboards blush
or why the carpet is upset
who wouldn't be
the contents to the upended ashtray
strewn around the apartment
resemble the aftermath
of the smallest war
to ever take place in norfolk
some midnight thief
must've made off with the lighter
because it isn't in
any of your favorite spots
maybe you chucked it
along with a hundred other things
that make noise when they land
in the neighbors yard
you won't remember putting
the refrigerator's belongings
in the bathtub
or scrawling a buzzard
on the bedroom door
but then again who would
you'll pretend it's spring again
before putting on your winter coat
to go out front with a cigarette
in your mouth
you'll hope for a passing stranger
to *** a light from
or drag yourself to the corner
with couch cushion change
to buy a new lighter
and on your way
you won't bother looking back
this is just another day
on eggshells for no reason
another november
choking on birthday candles
on your way home
you step over beer cans
the kind you fell in love with
and wonder who
had the last laugh last night
or if anyone said a word at all
it might've been another
moment of clarity
it might have been some idiot savant
any adjective that feels like home
anything that keeps you thirsty

any poet will tell you
any honest poet
will tell you,
the most difficult thing to do
is write about
them,
a good poet will tell you
it is cheating,
a bad one
nothing at all
inspiration?
a muse?
those are not needed
a poet is affected
by the smallest of trivialities

‘’why the hell is jeopardy still on?’’

‘’I asked for extra pickles on this
sandwich,
and there is no mustard on here’’

by the Yankees winning the series,
again,
a poet is driven by more
than the presence or absence of
love,
god,
***,
music,
money in the bank
his day will be molded
by the smallest of trivialities,
you turning off your lights,
the presence
or absence
of the sun,
a single mom crying in Toledo,
down to her last drop,
a homeless pet,
braver than you
or
I
by war,
or lack of it,
by a new president,
or an old one,
a poet is affected
by the smallest of trivialities
so be careful
when you shut off your lights

Without even trying
She commands my attention
Her body and mind
The worlds most beautiful inventions
And I have every intention
Of showing her
Just what a masterpiece
Every inch of her
Is.