Here’s something you seldom hear: don’t always listen to your heart. Because if your heart is like mine, it’s often fickle and confused. Emotions aren’t always true, they may come and go with the wind. Feelings trick us into believing lies. You look in the mirror and feel inadequate. You hear something so many times that you start to believe it’s true. You take a situation and manipulate it till it’s something completely false. But it’s time you start listening to your head: you may not be in control of what you feel, but you are in control of how you handle those feelings. Look in the mirror and tell yourself, “I know I am beautiful.” Refuse to believe the lies. Remind yourself of your many wonderful qualities. Don’t read too far into things, take them as they are. Worrying doesn’t change tomorrow, it just makes today more troublesome. Decide to be happy. Decide to be okay. Don’t believe everything you feel.

this is
your open field
this is
where you lie on your back
on a fluffy, plaid duvet
eating strawberries
forgetting the sound of honking cars
and car alarms
this is your studio
replace the clay with bars of soap
paintbrushes with shampoo bottles
write your thoughts on fogged glass
lists of run-on sentences, scribbled
without inhibition
this is where the water runs off
your shoulders
this is where you reflect
it is not poetic
it is quiet, it is ordinary
knots of hair from gushing wind
smoothed over with aloe conditioner
everything is spinning, but here it slows
this is where you pause
this is where you breathe
this is where you begin again

i want to keep falling asleep to your voice till the world stops existing.
i wish i could dissolve up out of my body and take a photo from
above of me lying here, arms outstretched and duvet covering
most of me except for a few strands of hair peeking out because
then you could see how tired i am, i am so tired.

(as) i’ve begun to learn
who you are, and how (deep)
your soul is,
(as) i’ve begun to notice
how perfect you are for me,
each hour i long for (the) moment
where i may finally be by your side

like the blueness of the (ocean is) constant,
so are the thoughts (between) each second
that possess your name

i cannot think of a world
where an (us) does not exist
because i’ve become (so) attached
to the idea of always being yours

(is) it bad? is it good?
that (my) heart is forever set on you?
sometimes it’s difficult to tell

i (love) days like today
when the sun is out
and my mind is clear like the sky,
i just wish you were here
to enjoy it

i will wait however long it takes
(for) that day to come
because i’ve never known anyone
as breathtaking as (you)

there are
so many meadows
i have not
so many roads
i have not
so many mountains
i have not
so many songs
i have not
so many books
i have not
so many hearts
i have not

so many
i have not

so many
i have

so many
i forget
so many
i do not see

the truth is

i cannot be contained like that

i cannot be taught to like water 
more than cranberry juice

i cannot pretend for decades upon decades

(years like soft footprints and malnourished
buzzards circling who i really am;
the whimsical part of me
decaying like neglected cavities)

that i enjoy self-discipline and growing muscle

i cannot cook healthy dinners 
and go to sleep at reasonable hours

i will not wake up one morning
and be everything that you hoped for me to be

i tried holding myself very still for a while
i tried to like doing what i’m supposed to

and maybe i will someday

but it won’t be because i loved you

i thought it’d be poetic
to leave you the same way i found you,
with a contentless text—
a simple entered space
(i knew you wouldn’t catch it)
although you seem to be someone
who thinks very deeply about all someones,
your thoughts about me are puddles
disguised as over-complimenting oceans

and i really do not know
what i am or what i’ve been to you,
or if i’ll be able to keep myself away
from you, or why you’d drive hours
to see me in the middle of the night
when you “plan on kissing at least one
girl in the next three months,”
(could care less if it’s me)

"what would i be waiting for," you asked.

i’m barefoot, chasing a train i know
is on tracks that lead away from where
i want and need to be (but i liked the way
it felt when your hand touched mine)

glad i never gave you any piece of my heart,
because you’re the type of boy who’d
rip it to shreds, hide your claws
behind your back, and tell me that
i should’ve seen it coming
(though you would’ve been right)

maybe you’re just bored,
and that’s why you decorate
your skin with ink and don’t care
about whose lips you’ve touched,
and i wish i could figure you out,
wish i could draw a perfect portrait
with my words (or even just
my thoughts) of who you are,
but i won’t pretend i know you

i hate you and your ***** tattoo
(but i don’t really hate you,
i hate the way i let you make me feel.)

Am I really so alone in my own thought
That I can find no one with the same vision as me?
The same astonishment?
The same confusion?
The same frustration?
Someone who may console me and tell me that I am not insane?
Am I insane?
If I am not, then why can’t I find a single soul that
See things the way I see them?
Is everyone blind?
Am I?

i wish we could go to a park at night
and sit back to back
on a blanket beneath the trees
and talk until the stars tell us to go home
because when i look at you straight on
my knees grow weak and my voice shakes
and maybe i'm not exactly sure what to say
when i'm distracted by
all the what ifs in your eyes
and maybe my mind dizzies with thought
like the possibility that i could be
a high tidal wave
that washes away the foundations
of a barely built sandcastle
and maybe i just wish i could tell you
everything on my mind at 2am
and maybe i'm just really hoping
you feel the same way

i have forgotten
to linger 
in love 
with you
in a past life
wanting only 
to be found worthy 
of your affection
revere your touch as holy
like goosebumps 
in the italian sun
to write melodies
and ballads
and captions
not of purity, not of beauty
but of how you make me feel
forget all the rest
all the fighting
all the ugly
all the words
we didn’t mean
for i am ill 
when you are not around
and it is poetic enough
that you are broken 
yet you are
what makes me whole

i do not feel compassion
for the man who made me
learn what it means to survive,
to come out the other side
with wounds that hide under
repressed skin, only to reveal themselves
as silence or black ice caught in
a flash of remembering;
i do not wonder what made him this way
think, did his mother hug him enough
when i hear his voice echoing
in nightmares where i cannot scream
and my legs feel like lead
burdened by the weight of all this baggage,
a torn up suitcase
filled with blood red bricks—
it does not meet the carry-on weight limit
and
i cannot unpack it.

i’ve never had feelings for anyone who could be good for me. i’ve never been interested in someone where a good, healthy relationship could’ve resulted, and maybe that’s why i’m so jaded, because everyone i’ve ever liked has just been a distraction or a house on fire— someone i know i shouldn’t be involved with, but i’ll give myself just a few more days to run around frantically with my hands over my eyes, peaking through the cracks between my fingers, searching for things i know i don’t really need, and then i’ll dash out and run down the driveway and the smog will linger for a little while, and the neighbors will complain, and i’ll sit on the curb with my forehead on my knees, holding nothing but intangible regret. next, i’ll either get over it, or obsessively think about him and the ashes smudged on the inside of my eyelids for longer than my sanity. i’ve never really liked someone and been able to daydream about the real possibility of us turning into something greater; of tire swings and painted mailboxes and overgrown, green lawns. it’s always been pretending and fake hope and melodramatic doom. i think it’s messed up my perception of having feelings for someone, because i can never take it seriously— either i know he’s not right for me, or i know the circumstances prohibit the possibility of us. it makes me never want to give anyone a chance (i can’t even see anyone worth chance-giving) because i know how it ends. i don’t like having this closed off heart so early on; i’m too young to be this bitter.

don’t you worry now,
it’s all about to change
you told me
     you were going to change
to be a better you for me
     and you said you wanted
so badly to make this work

taken all that you are
taken all that i’ve got
i gave you every bit of me
     and you tried to give me
every bit of you, but
     it was too difficult
for you to try to love yourself
     when you were giving
so much of yourself to me

don’t run away from all this
it can cause more than you think
before i didn’t want to let go,
     i wanted to keep believing that
     maybe
you’d be able to love me
as much as i loved you

i’ll be gone
so turn your hands in
and now that i’ve let go,
it doesn’t feel like you’re gone
     more so, it feels like i’m the one
     who has left you standing
     with your face in your hands,
wishing you’d been able to be
a better you for me

don’t you worry now,
it’s all about to change
i don’t doubt that one day
     you’ll be an amazing you
for someone else
     and that one day
it’ll all make sense to both of us

don’t you worry now,
it’s all about to change*
and i don’t doubt
     that one day
i will find someone
who will love me
as much as you wanted to

the panic begins at night
and it follows me through
the day,
anchors me to my bedroom
floor when everyone begins to
shut their doors and turn out their
lights

my ceiling doesn’t look like
a galaxy, or even just a
ceiling, it feels like a hand
lowering
itself, slowly,
until i’m stuck beneath fingernails

i change my sheets, bathe my dog,
it lingers inside my throat
my twin mattress feels like i’m
drowning in a bathtub

there are tan lines on my
shoulders where your arms should be

in my house, i’m not alone,
but when the moon is in the sky,
and my friends are in their beds,
and these incessant thoughts
are in my head,

i might as well be

This time next week, I hope I will be breathing the air that I’ve been gasping for. I didn’t realize that four months could feel like four broken bones, two arms, two legs, all secretly cracked, only felt under the weight of my own invisible dread. It’s okay that I went back to being sixteen for awhile. It’s not what I wanted, what I planned for, but it’s what happened. I woke up with butterflies in my stomach and the rug ripped out from under me. My car sits in the driveway and I don’t drink coffee anymore because it makes me shake and I don’t know how to handle the shaking like I used to. I never used to worry about sharing drinks yet today I’ve washed my hands fifteen times and still don’t trust them. But it’s August and I’m twenty-three again. Or at least I will be when the key slides into the lock and I take that big gulp and pray for it to add a few years back that were taken away this summer. Everything is a circle cut in half, alternating between hollow and whole, snaking through time with hysterical pseudo endings and beginnings that are really just doors leading down a different hallway in the same ******* infinite hotel. Sometimes Wes Anderson’s, sometimes The Shining. I don’t have to listen to the yelling for the rest of my life if I don’t want to. I don’t have to be so unhappy if I don’t want to. Maybe next Saturday I will drive to the coffee shop on the corner and order something decaf and sugary and thank god that it’s over. It’s over. *******. The leaves will be turning orange soon. I almost forgot.

i was riding in the passenger seat
down a meandering stretch of back road
where the mountains look
like watercolors
when i realized that
your arms feel safer
than my own mother’s

(i am afraid of what that means)

i still fall asleep
in your old heather grey t-shirt
still think of you
every time i pull a sundress
over my head

(i am afraid of what that means)

the braids in my hair
the buzzing in my chest
the left side of the bed
the small, persistent voice inside
telling me to keep going

are somehow
in some measure
still yours

(i am
in some measure
still yours)

my heart
was in chains
my eyelids
heavy
my knees
weak

but You painted
my soul
with grace

You took my
burdens
and draped them
upon Yourself,
spread Your arms
wide
and said
"i love you
this much"

You took my pain
You immersed me
in love
You continue
to guard my path

You
have set
me free

sitting across from you
at the white kitchen table
or cross-legged on my side of the bed
is someone hollow.
not as sweet as a fig. not as dead
as the inside of a black rotting trunk
but close. i do not hold beautiful things
like a terracotta vase. inside my head
is a seam ripper that splits everything
down the middle. sometimes
you are standing in front of the bright window,
glowing like a saint. sometimes
i let you fall into an algae-lined pool
that i will not pay to have cleaned.
everything is floating within me.
i haven’t figured out
how to anchor this stuff down.

no one ever taught me how

here i am
sitting at my typewriter
as tears trickle down my cheeks
and i can hardly breathe
because i know it’s over
and that this isn’t just another
false ending
it’s really, truly over
and i hate that you had to hear my voice quiver
i just pray you’ll be happy
and that everything will work out for you
in the end
you are so special
you are so special
you are so special
i will miss you forever
but i don’t doubt that i’ll see you again
in that distant place
i know that all will be well
and we won’t think of the pain
or the hurt
or the fights
or the tears
we’ll just be thankful for all the goodness
that came from two hearts
being so vulnerable with each other
everything will be okay
i’ll be okay
please do not worry
you are good
i don’t blame you
i know i’ll be okay
i just wish i could’ve been okay
with you
this hurts so much
but it won’t hurt forever

goodbye

p.s. i forgive you

I feel invisible
Yet you claim(ed) I am the air you breathe
And perhaps like air I am always present,
But presently forgotten

The heaviness of your hush is crushing me with empty blows
This silence leads me to wander down a path cloaked in a heavy mist
That whispers harsh truths such as:
Our hopeless, fictitious, drawn out infatuation is like
A library book that was checked out last March
You underlined and doggie-paged the first few chapters
And then left it on your shelf to collect dust all of April and May

I foolishly kept begging you to finish the book
Read the last sentence
Take time to skim over the epilogue
Please
Find your way to the back cover

I foolishly ignored your “I can’t”s

And now it’s late August and our love is long overdue,
In the opposite sense of what the phrase typically means

I write with angry lead because
I am too stubborn to admit I just filled a trash bin with tissues
And that the cuffed sleeves of my flannel
Are damp like grass’s morning dew

I have so much more to say,
Although I cannot find the words
To say anything more than



You should’ve written.

Because two weeks of nothing
Was enough for me to realize that you are just a passing breeze
Seldom present, presently becoming something of the past.

no use in wondering if you saved my letters
or still look at photographs of me and sigh
because at the end of the day
when i’m wrapped up in sheets and blankets
wearing wooly socks and thick leggings and flannel
i’m still cold
and you’re still
so far away
in so many ways
and i miss you, i miss you, i miss you
i miss you
but i can’t tell you
and i won’t tell you
because even if you miss me
like i miss you
i’m the one
who tripped up the stairs
and even if you offered me a hand
(you didn’t, that’s okay)
i couldn’t take it
because i need to clean
the cuts on my knees
and wait for the bruises to fade
on my own
so while it seems that you’re fine now
with taking the stairs two at a time,
i’m still trying
to stand on my feet
and i miss you, i miss you, i miss you
i really freaking miss you
and i’m trying so hard
to be strong

every day
i look into
a mirror
with smudges
all over the middle
framed in gold
with carvings of
birds and vines
at the edges
there are little cracks
that sometimes
my fingers
get caught on
and i bleed quietly
onto the cold
floor

it doesn’t like
to be kissed
when my hair
is half up and
half down
but still
i leave my
balmy lip stains
defiantly on
the spaces
i can reach
and focus on
everything
in front of me
except for my
own
reflection

a small, fading hickey on my left
breast
reminds me that
you’re
the
best
even when i’m picking my face
in front of a ***** bathroom mirror
shirtless and un-showered and smelling of
cat ****
you’re the best
even when you’re the worst
even when you scream and criticize and
bleed
you are trying and you’re human and
you
see
me
you’re the best
because you care enough to grab my hand and
hold it
when you see that i’m digging my fingernail
into the side of my thumb
you’re the best
you leave marks on my chest
because i told you that i liked it once,
forever ago

you can either
keep yourself up at night
wondering
          "why me?"
you can hide under your covers
and tell everyone
you're wrong and you'll
never be right

or you can see all this
          heartbreak
          pain
          conflict
          imperfection
as an opportunity
to emerge from the concealed depths
to the gleaming luminescence
and become stronger

it is your choice to decide
whether to drown in your troubles
or to courageously survive

because the harder the struggle
the more spirited you become in the end
         "the deeper the mud
         the more beautiful the lotus blooms"

i do not speak your name
i cannot even whisper it
instead, i hide it in my dreams
under my sheets
beneath a sky that sees all
but does not burn my skin
do you ever wonder
what the moon is thinking?
does she gaze down solemnly and see
a fading opus
or a symphony simply tightening its strings
for the final act?
do you think it makes her sad
to see the greens replaced
with soot and plaster
the seas rising to meet her
with an apocalyptic kiss?
the falling tide
the slow recession
reminds me that
she keeps our secrets
but i think it breaks her heart

what is something insignificant
that attaches itself easily to whatever
it picks up in the passing wind
maybe a mosquito
i know people like to say their
blood is sweet
they like to think of themselves
as beloved but the truth is
you were only nearby
with a bit of leg to bite down on
they'll fill themselves up with anyone
who gets close enough
i think i'm the same way or at least
i used to be
i could tell you why i tend to feel
so desperate for wholeness
dressed up every morning in my black gown and veil
a hand-me-down rosary wrapped around my knuckles
but the story gets old
the older i get
when i was little i told myself
i'd never be the dad in the sports car
who only listens to oldies
but i've been practicing with the sound of rain
held by the way it always comes down the same
i think i'll stare out the window forever
i think i'll never grow tired of the echo

is it new york i love
or do i crave being
near you; crave the
one in a million
chance that if we
were in the same city
we would run into
each other on the
sidewalk while i’m
on my way to buy
flowers and you’re
smoking a cigarette
dressed in all black
and i’d smile at you
and you’d grab me by
the wrists and scold
me for being away
for so long and then
i’d let you kiss my face
as you interlock your
fingers with mine and
you’d never let me go
again, you would
take me with you
wherever you went
and i’d never look back.

why do i crumble
fall into pieces of
oats and sugar
something beautiful
in a white bowl, but
a mess on the floor
when i wake up
in an empty house
why do i wither like
brown leaves
under brand new and
borrowed boots atop
autumn sidewalks
when i’m alone,
i’m alone,
i’m alone
it is not enough
to eat breakfast
however small
to wash my hair with
coconut milk
to not step out into
the busy street;
i freeze before the ice
touches me
i do not allow
the chance to warm
my own hands
i lie down, on
***** sheets,
and wait for someone
anyone
anything
to awaken me

i hold onto
the way the air feels in october
it brings out the best in me
unlike the violating heat
of august that fills the space between
the dirt and the heavens
only a handful of moons prior to
the golden treetops and the
ritualistic pumpkin and maple
that stir our hearts and reveal
our need for stupid, cheery things

the earth is falling asleep
lying its head to rest
in the fading foliage on the ground
folding up the day into smaller
and smaller glimpses of light
but here i am
bathing in the soft wind
here i am
grinning in a grey sweater
here i am
waking up

library books;
     the musty smell floods me with
     thoughts of its past readers
     did a girl like me
     run her finger across this line
     as i have?
     will our lines like vines
     ever intertwine?

rainy nights;
     while the tip-tap and dribble of
     droplets hit my windowsill,
     i imagine gusts of wind
     dancing with one another:
     carless and free
     and without destination

light touches;
     the accidental bump of elbows,
     the awkward entanglement
     of fumbling phalanges,
     a gentle squeeze of the hand,
     a comforting gesture that says
     “i am here.”

now reverie this:
     you and i,
     the spines of our books broken,
          our shoulders barely brushing,
               the sound of soft and subtle raindrops
          all things i adore in one simple
      and seemingly endless moment

books, rain, touches, and you

I don’t have a problem with saying too little, you don’t have to carve inspiration into a health room desk or vandalize a bathroom stall to get me to tell him how I feel. I have a problem with acting as if it’s four a.m. all day long and forgetting that you don’t need to know about my every mood swing: my Sunday highs and Tuesdays lows and Thursday nothings. I think my biggest fault is bothering you to tell me all the thoughts that have yet to cross your mind (and maybe wishing they had.) I want you to want to know everything I feel at any given moment: what I thought of this evening’s sunset and how long it took me to fall asleep last night and why track two of my favorite album makes me feel like I’m in a dream. I want you to want me to know why you painted your bedroom walls yellow and how often you floss your teeth and which day of the week you feel happiest on. But most of all, I want to know everything you feel, even before you’ve felt it.

you're asleep and i'm sad
wanted to stay up all night
and talk with you
about your day
and why the sky is blue

everything is so easy with us
our words flow back and forth steadily
like the gliding of a ship
atop a calm sea

when i feel broken
you mend me with your words
when i have nothing to say
you effortlessly occupy the silence

you fill this gap inside me
in a way that makes me forget
i was ever incomplete

i'd tell you all of this,
but you're asleep

the thing about feelings
is that they change
yesterday,
  you may have been
   completely infatuated
    with someone  
     or entirely immersed
     in sadness,
   but that doesn’t mean
that’s how you feel now
or how you’ll feel forever
and i fear that people forget that,
  i fear we fail to remember
   that emotions are not permanent
    and maybe that’s why
     her stomach hurts
    when she thinks about
   the girls in his life
  before her
  or why i’m reluctant
   to share old poems
    because i don’t want anyone
     to think that’s how i feel today
    so maybe we should start asking
   “how are you?” more often
     and stop accepting
      the default “i’m okay.”
       and maybe we should start
      caring more about
    what people say now,
   instead of dwelling on
  words of the *past

I'm afraid to write about you because
Ink makes me feel everything,
And everything feels so much more real
When my cursive words smudge up against
The side of my hand and stain it blue
As my pen races to keep up with my heart

But it can't be real,
Because I thought I was moving on,
I thought I was growing up,
I thought I knew all of this was
Foolish and starry-eyed

I thought, I thought, I thought
But maybe I need to stop thinking
And just let myself feel;
Feel the butterflies you put in my stomach,
Feel the pure bliss you infuse into bloodstream

And maybe I don't need to know everything,
Like exactly what you're thinking
Or exactly how I feel
Or how all of this is going to turn out

I guess what I'm saying is that
Everything isn't always going to be clear,
I may come up to "two roads in a yellow wood"
And not be absolutely certain which one I'm meant to take,
But I do know that whichever path I choose,
I'd like to be able to scan the trees and smile
Because you're there walking alongside me.

metal redolent
fingertips decorate my
thighs with beautiful
scarlet stripes; your words
have left a signature that
stings on my delicate flesh

i have a consuming desire to know everyone

when i peer out the car window
and look upwards to see a plane
leaving a vapor trail across the pink
and purple blended sky,
i can’t help but let my mind bloom
with thoughts of who is up there

i wish i could go through the isles,
sit down next to each passenger
and watch their eyes light up
or become watery, or both,
as they tell me their story

i want to know where they’re going
where they’re coming from
i want to know their favorite moments
what cheers them up on bad days
their thoughts before sleep
what their “one day” dreams are
i want to know what breaks their heart
and what puts a smile on their face

i want to know them inside and out
because i fully believe
that at the core of each individual
there is beauty

some choose to let it radiate outwardly,
some are too afraid to let it shine

so many people don’t know they’re beautiful,
and maybe that’s the reason
i wish i could cross paths with the whole world

i wish i could show everyone
how beautiful
they truly are

after you've mix two souls
combine the brightest blues
with the deepest reds
but it becomes all too heavy
and you're ready to go
lace up your shoes and turn off the light
how can you tell which bits are yours
and which are theirs?
is it ever possible to be entirely untangled
or do you leave holding pieces that don't match?
left with gaps that feel hollow
can you get them back?
can you grow anew?
the feat truly feels unfathomable
it seems as though
when you walk away from love
you’ll always be carrying too little
or carrying too much

i’m always all too conscious
of moments hanging in the air
like watching helium balloons slowly
fall down the wall to cover the ground,
i keep stepping on them till they pop

like looking out the window once the suns starts to set
and you can’t see the light fading, but then you
blink and you’re sitting in a dark room

sitting next to you
with eyes closed and breath held
in a moment
that doesn’t feel real

like i’m looking down at the earth
while standing on the moon

and i know i’ll miss it once it’s gone,
but i can’t seem to figure out
how to freeze the hours that feel like seconds
passing by and

then it’s time
to leave and i held your hand
while you drove me home,
thinking about how real everything felt
with the lights blurring past on the interstate,
how i wanted the road to go on forever,
watching you rap stupid songs and
talk about how to feel grown up
without really growing up
and then suddenly

it was gone,
like it was never there

and i sat on my bed
wishing i could walk back into
the hands on the clock and
your hands on my face, but it
disappeared, floated up to the ceiling
carrying my heart with it

and all i have now are
memories that feel like dreams

to play back in my head
until time fades back into you.

my heart doesn’t feel things the same way it used to. i feel so… that feeling you get when you take a photo with someone you don’t know very well and you’re unsure if you should put an arm around them or not. i used to FEEL EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE, now i just feel… stagnant. no tragedy, no infatuation, i’m over you, i’m moving on, i’m not drowning in any sea of emotion. i’m stranded in an apathetic desert. i need SOMETHING. ANYTHING. captivate me, break my heart, i don’t like this silence

give me something to write about.

i can’t describe the feelings i get
the day after a rainstorm
or when the sun sets early
in the winter

happiness and sadness
are easy to recognize,
but sometimes i have emotions
that i cannot identify

like how i feel
about you

on one overcast afternoon
under a dull sky
when the wet grass tells a story
of a storm you just missed
i will learn to compose my heart beats
to match the slow
dripping of water
off a steel roof’s edge
i will play its strings like a harp
the soft music will regulate
an even pattern of inhales
and exhales
a rising chest
falling
there are no bruises
i do not wince
i’ve forgotten the feeling of
sharp venom
my blood pumps the antidote
and the ire at my temples
in my lungs
on my chest
dissolves into a vapor of knowing
i am safe
within myself
no matter how low the clouds hang

i don’t think my mother
ever brushed my hair.
and if she did,
i can’t remember it.
i could lie and say
that i wonder why,
but i know why.
it was because
she was busy with
my sister’s brand-new curls,
busy tending to her own
dark roots and dry ends.

when i am a mother,
i will balance my sons
and daughters on my lap
and one by one
comb through
their soft mops
with patient hands.

they will never wonder
why i left them
to sort out
the knots
on their own.

they will know
i am there
to help untangle
the predestined messes
caused by the wind,
and caused by me.

i’m the kind of girl
who leaves dying flowers on my desk
because i can still find beauty
in the withering petals

i hope you’re the type of boy
who will remind me
to put water
in the vase

when i asked if he had any tattoos, he said
not yet. but if i do, it’ll be to do with God or you.

it has been
76 days
since he
scratched
out
my name
from
his heart
and moved
onto
you

it’ll be to do with God or you.

i wonder if that line gave you butterflies, too.

When I’m older, I’ll give more of myself to the yellow morning. By then, I’ll have a front porch where the honeybees join me for breakfast, and I won’t worry about the sting any longer than I should, and the day will be enough. But for now, I am still waiting for a flood, still waist-deep in the rain. I am taking communion with the things that hurt, letting them melt on my tongue like hot wax. The broken clock, and the hollow haunting, and the songs that say what I can’t. I think the winter knows me better than I’d like to admit. But sometimes, the heaviness feels a lot like being held, and so I let it crush me.

it's not about
ninety-nine cent cards
from the dollar store,
or milk chocolate
in the shape of a heart

it's not about
feeling bad for yourself
because you're single
or going out
to an expensive dinner

it's not about
how many bouquets
or "happy valentine's day"
text messages you receive

love is beautiful,
it is forbearing and selfless,
it is not bitter or rude,
it is modest and humble


so even if you think today
was created by hallmark
to sell more cards

why not show love
to someone
you care about?
or even to
a complete stranger

you don't have to have
a boyfriend or girlfriend
or husband or wife
or "significant other"
to celebrate today

because everyday
is a wonderful day
to love someone