he sounded as soft as
my lips felt and I told him
the fire felt good exploding
across my chest as I balled my body
into his slouched frame. I pressed his
palm against my chest to see if his
wooden fingers would catch on fire.

I'm doing
better
than I
did.

I did do
better
then I
am.

sometimes I think you hate me. the way you cut your words at the end making sure they jab, sometimes I think you hate me,
the way you walk away as quickly as you came, sometimes I think you hate me the way you level your eyes on every inch of my body but my eyes, sometimes I think you hate me more than you could ever love me and then you kiss me until I'm left with no memories to rely on, sometimes I think you love me and then you go and leave me

this is my
love letter
to me:

i am my
reason
for being.

it's six
and i'm still
swiggin'-
where've
I gone
wrong

between yesterday
and today I wrote
thirty-seven poems
because I didn't know
how to feel
everything.

danny told me
danny told me
hold my hand
whenever
you need to
but my hands
pulsed from sweat
and his hand
kept slipping into
and out of me.

i wrote thirty-seven
poems simply so
my mind could have a
moment to dispose of
everything so that
it could have
room for more
than everything.

I haven't felt so
drained in my life.
I haven't felt so
numb in my life.

Julia Roberts
lied to them.
Richard Gere
is not going to
climb onto a
rickety ladder,
risking his life,
facing his fears
just to kiss their
lips. He is only
one man. And
they are but a
few

Being
drunk
feels a lot
like
falling
down.

Years later,
I let you see
the poems I
wrote about you
and you held them,
a tight, unbinded
book in quivering
hands and you
you didn't smile
and you didn't
thank me,
you just stood there
with your weak
brown eyes
and your strong fingers
and you took in my
attempts of
remembering you,
writing you like you were.

Your door cannot stop this flood.

on Saturday I lost my holey limbs to the turntable, jammed my finger down some strangers throat and hollared as he walked away from me, sweet nothings and everyday misjudgements but you said, "paint me neon like the hues of my lady blues as they crush between the balms of my legs and drain me." if I could flower you a rosebud the size of my browning fist and lunge it into the pit of your stomach, I'd hold you steady between the pressure pointed weights of my thighs, lick the sugar from my lips and wait for you to beg me for air.

We are not okay ok.
We are breaking and you are stitching
and I am mending and trying
and we. We are not okay ok.
We are never okay.
We are always confused
and never okay ok.

and I breathe in his smoke because it is the only air that he will give me

he has his demons of his own.
he has to, kind as he is-
to have fallen for something
as cruel as you.

as much as I have to say
I never know what to say
or where to begin.
or where to end

sometimes I find it easier to
start in the middle and see
where it leads me.

Sometimes, I just bite my
tongue and hope that
everything comes out
alright, alright.

I'd recreate myself from paper, easily, so that on the days that i cry, my words will slump into the lines of my cheeks and wither away my memories.

I like to wear glitter                above and below my eyes          so that when he looks at me,     he sees nothing more than the promise of stars                 against the wishes                    of my dark skin.                        I'd like to be the                    black sky that he                      wishes               upon.

do not forget the lies
that history told you
as you continue on
to spread your own.

what are you waiting for.
      he used to say to me,
a silly song that used to numb the very *tip of my ears-
           a silly song that used to make the very tip of my tongue dance-
the stretch up his neck, the range of his chest, the span of his lips-
           and he'd swear that he'd love me never  using the word forever
because he said that there was no need,
                      his love was indefinite
and now I'm asking him what he's waiting for and he's telling me
       something better
and I'm wishing that I could travel back a few months younger
                    so that I could tell him:
*everything

the bruises on my legs mark the lies of you from a past when all I did was bleed on your bed sheets and whine about the aesthetics of any place that didn't feel like home, that didn't feel like you. but I digress. but I digress.

I told him he has a beautiful voice
and he just kept on singing,
louder and louder and louder

He is confused by
both dusk and dawn.

He considers both to be
another variation of night.

you're not as bright
as you typically are.
today you seem so dim.

Courtney Love's in my lungs
screaming, was she,
"Asking for it"
was she asking for it
was she asking for it
what did she ******* say
whatdidshefuckingsay

I throw lightbulbs at cellophane walls and watch as they bounce onto the floor and shatter across my feet, sparks lighting my feet and then resting right there, beneath me: apart of me.

he said I opened up like a flower in his mouth and only budded when he planted his seeds upon me, he said I shined like a golden waxed sun, and blindedly, he gazed upon me until his eyes became glossy and brimmed with melted butter. he said I bled cranberry juice on his white sheets and refused to apologize for my sins and I laughed at his silly truths and said, "A likely story." he said I rhymed like the chorus his left and right legs created, balanced. he missed the chaos of me from behind his tear-tinted glasses. he missed all of the ways my body shuddered simply because the lack of rhythmic noise and conversation and action wound me up in the binds of his tight knots and refused to release me.

i'd like to be a flower
               growing real tall off your wall-

                                     these nonsensical things,
                                          i keep thinking-
                                              dreaming-­
                                                 being-
                       I don't need to hear any-much-more
                                     about your happy life,
                                       just go on and be it

I'd like to grow-a not-yet-blossomed flower,
real tall off your wall and then falling
i keep thinking-
           these nonsensical things
falling real soft onto the chest of your bed.

I write three times a day
so that my mind stays
leveled.

I squat a hundred times
every morning so that my
thighs stay taut.

I base my face every night
with Jojoba oil to help
maintain the oiliness
of my skin and every morning
with organic honey
to help bring balance
and newness to my face.

I dance every night
just to feel my heart
beat beating.

And still, they ask
what do I do for my
soul?

you're like a moving photo in my mind. i've had this reel spinning in my mind for days now of all what we could be. all that we can do. my body shivers in anticipation and shudders out of fear. i've thought it over. backwards and forwards and all i can seem to do is want you even more. always in my mind, always on my time. allison says i'm in love. i say i'm just having a really hard time. focusing. breathing.

We don't speak.

We look into each other's eyes.

We don't nod.

We acknowledge each other's presence with silence and calm swarms along with it.

He fixes his tie and walks away.

We don't speak.

We don't speak.

We don't speak.

I often wonder where
we've drawn the line in the sand
and why

Is it simply so that the winds
can have something to disrupt

My mood and this rain.

you kiss me like I'm a blank page you're writing a new poem across my lips. each stroke of your tongue scripts another line.

on a night like tonight
when everything feels
just a little more dismal
than any other, i find myself
missing the way the moon
embraced the slant of my
cresting back. some days,
i sit back and i think about
how sorry i am for hurting you
or if my decisions hurt me
more than they did you

some days i can't help but wonder,
how in heaven's name i was dumb
enough to walk away from all that i had with you. i wait not for your demise
but my very own against your
desires and pleas, if i could symphony you a tale of my dire dissatisfaction of my
daily life, i'd stand upright against
this shallow wall they've built
to help me stay upright and ready

some days, i waft, face drowning
in an ocean of dissatisfaction
waiting for something new or old
to shrug my slumped shoulders awake.

I want to cry. I want to cry so ******* badly it hurts. This hurts. It all hurts so bad

You should hate me but you don't.
You should hate me but you won't.

help me.
i think
I've forgotten
how to
breathe

I saltened my lips of you, wore brown for days and tried to blend to the earth of my skin. I wore blue lips and combed my hair pencil thin. I painted my lungs red and lathered in the Puritan flow that warmed between my legs to the bitten taint of your neck. I killed your soul with my ashing hands. You said she ruined your life, you say I ended yours by hanging you from the hem of my skirt without ever saying a word.

Recite to me every song lyric that reminds you of me and every line that hums a smile across your lips and presses the feel of my hands against your chest.

youth is on your side
until you are dead;
only then has it
escaped you.