I wake up on your side of the bed
cold, without you to bring sunlight
to dandelion bones, shaken by the
violent winds
and dimmed stars that sew our
eyes shut, together and then apart
like children on swing sets
on a warm summer night.

blow these dandelion bones far
apart and into the sky
till I’m void of anything but
battered skin and galaxy bruises
till I’m nothing but
everything.

I walked hallways and corridors that led me to
nowhere but haunting blood scenes
and ***** nooses hanging with emptiness
where the bodies used to be
whispers screaming to be heard from the ceilings
and the corners
like bone edges on her body, ribcage swallowing
the birds up whole,
feathers between the lips
and blood on the fingertips where her hands
once held the carcasses of lost souls

I write poems that I never finish
*the end.

your eyes glare in the darkness
like dimmed stars in the night sky
words upon words and knives that
go through the chest
and out,
like harsh touches
resembling fires and hurricanes
and I’m lost
like a little child looking for the
love of a dead father
scars upon scars and
battle wounds
in the heart, in the soul
(but you won’t be the death of me.)

so many bodies lie
rotting and I’m sick
many hands digging
holes in the ground
and I’m sick. I’m sick
and tired.
I think of how you
used to be, and the
weight of the world
squeezes my neck
till my heart splatters
like red paint
on an empty canvas.
I’m sick, and I let you
carve abandonment
into my flesh.
I’m sick and I want to
sleep where the bodies
don’t sleep.

my lungs are burning up for you
and you just stand there
admiring the fireworks.

don't create distance between us,
like painting oceans between the skies & lands
unreachable,
like,
branches caging you from beneath your deepest
secrets.
and no amount of rain is enough to make the
drought in my eyes leave, like all the people
we said goodbye to
at train stations & graveyards
that soon became as empty & cold as
the bottles she'd drowned her sorrows into;
setting skins on fire & smoking death into the lungs
like snow-kissed bodies whispering love songs to ghosts
oh dear Bukowski, girls like her don’t learn to
walk through fires
they are fire-lungs & burnt skies,
haunted nursery rhymes bleeding out of souls
like volcanoes & violin screams.