I have a fairy by my side
Which says I must not sleep,
When once in pain I loudly cried
It said "You must not weep"
If, full of mirth, I smile and grin,
It says "You must not laugh"
When once I wished to drink some gin
It said "You must not quaff".

When once a meal I wished to taste
It said "You must not bite"
When to the wars I went in haste
It said "You must not fight".

"What may I do?" at length I cried,
Tired of the painful task.
The fairy quietly replied,
And said "You must not ask".

Moral: "You mustn't."

I know her by name.
I know her by face.
Only, I don't even
know her at all.
I think I've seen her
once,
and for once
I wasn't disappointed.

We are so much alike
only she has brighter eyes.
We are so much alike;
So, I figured
from black and white
I could be pastel--
faded bright.

We are so much alike
only she drinks psalms
like the preacher's wine.
Before I abandoned religion
I used to kneel
and break bread every Sunday, too.
So, I figured
I could still be as holy
if I clapped my hands together
and whispered litanies
on candles burning outside chapels—
faded light.

We are so much alike
in the way we love
books and music,
anything aesthetic.
But, I am wrapped in tin foil
and she dons silk and laces.
Same filling,
different faces.

And kid, I wouldn't blame you
for craving
the same flavor
in different packaging.

We are so much alike
only, compared to her
porcelain China doll skin,
I am a witch's voodoo,
covered in pins and needles
piercing rough skin,
a cheap imitation—
a fake.

We are so much alike
only I'm lying
when I say we are
because she is pastel
paint in coffee shops
and I am crayola
vandals on the sidewalk.

And let's admit pretty
isn't anything I would
ever be.

It makes me sick.
Because I'm not like her.
I'm never going to be just

pretty;

Pity, that's all they ever want us to be.

i.

i used to only write sad poems.

ii.

you see,
i am a cynic,
a cemetery,
a holocaust,
a chaotic, distant, lost girl
buried in her own
self-destruction.

but with you
i am different.

i want to wake up,
keep my promises,
make up for lost time,
spill blood and ink,
try again,
live

for you.

iii.

you walk me home
and the skies blush
pink cloud summers
mid-December.

we part and i marvel
at the sepia tint
of backyard roses
blurring my lenses.

you came in
like the missing palette color
i never knew
i needed
my skies painted with.

iv.

now, you are all the love poems
i didn't know i could write.

and every metaphor i create
is just a lengthier version of
'i love you'

i really do.

there’s a place where the trees collide as if they
are making love and the hush of the leaves overlapping
is like a whisper of,
branches and plants and limbs and bodies.
maple and palm and sandalwood
and fresh air.

the roots messily fall along edges and depths
of soil
and i just want a love like that

natural like nature
quiet yet passionate
messy and thoughtful

the kind of love that is clear like a waterfall
like laughter and fish nipping at your toes
peace, sunbaths, the chirp of the birds
at the sunset bay,
where the moon tucks in daylight/

it’s like in this place,
there’s a hyperawareness of bruises
and there’s a gentle caress of the wind.
and the way your lips part at a near death or when
a song is on the tip of your clicking tongue
is lacking
numbness.

unwavering sentience
an empath spinning in a hurricane.

the best lover to is the one
that feels like home
when you
are homeless.

and i know, for
the trees tell me so.

summer is so hot and lonely
and sometimes i wonder
if the skin i am in
betrays me to the world.

i forget without forgiving,
i remember without wanting to
and yet
i want to remember
deep breaths,
georgia,
driving with the top down while
going eighty miles per hour
on a no-name/
dead end
road.

please.
remind me:
why can’t i just fly into the sun
and
feel the heat melt away my flesh
until i am no longer a body?
until i am just soul?
until i am freed?

the starlight/sunlight/pale light
keeping me alive has the power
to tear the life away from me.
do you believe it?

wherever god is,
i think she is crying,
but she’s laughing as well.
she’s laughing at pain, she’s
crying for love, and
somewhere there’s a sun shower.
children are playing and dancing in it,
and a mother tells her son
that “the devil is
beating his wife.”
a son tells his mother,
“this feels
too much like love
to be an act of violence”

and so it goes.