i shot off rockets into the sky months ago
that burst into words to  remind me to
keep going     keep breathing     keep
holding my heart   higher than the
river of   y o u r   hands that was
flooding down  m y  street and
threatening   to   break  down
my  door.  i  put all  my  best
pieces in aboxandsentthem
to myself    (cc: my closest
friends)   and i am ready
to get them back, to put
my    h e a r t   on   my
sleeve where i have
always  kept it,  to
have you   f e e l
from across this
town that you did
not break me, did not
damage   me,  did   n o t
destroy my gumption or my
eagerness to take on the world,
did not make me into something
i am not.   i am a    worrier but    a
w        a        r         r        i         o         r
and  i  will  not  stop  going  until  my
head is quiet and my hands are still.
and  this  thing you  did  to me- this
supposedly life altering thing- will
just be a soft  reminder  of  only
the  climb i  made  to get  me
back    to    where    i    am.

the cold came
upon us gently
a hand to sweep
away the summer
and we cleared the
table willingly so
the wood could
reach mahogany
we are all lit up
in candlelight
with lips as
soft and red
as cherries
so smooth
you want
to kiss the
first person
who calls you



beautiful.

you eat a lot of cucumbers.


at first you only slice them,
but then you're cutting them
in half, in quarters. You eat
them with carrots, no carrots,
with lemon pepper and salt.
You eat them in your room
with hot tea boiled to 150
degrees, in the kitchen
at the counter staring
out the window, at
the dining table
at the patterns
on the hard-
wood floor.
Is that real wood?
It could be. That doesn't
really matter. You put too
much salt on these. And
sometimes in the tub
you crouch down
and study the
curtains with
an unbridled
amount of curiosity
because you need to be
deep about at least something
but mostly you just realize that
your legs are bruised and your
cuticles sting because you bite
them so often. This water could be hotter.



This water could be hotter.

sleep against my thigh
my skin is made of steel
so you melt the edges
with your breath,
draw figures in the grey
like windows in the cold,
you huff, puff and the frost
is gone, your hands burn
imprints on my waist and
crack my hips that are made
of glass, a fracture line that
carries up my chest, an
earthquake that shifts
through my bones, that
haunts me when you're not
at home, so come home,
come home,

come home.

i said goodbye to the first
part of you in Lawrence
thirteen days ago walking
pastthatantiquemall.itrailed
my fingers on its brick and
thought of you reclaiming
my heart in its basement
and i did not want to turn
into dust, did not feel like
melting into the nearest
gutter. i simply took my
hand from the stone,
continued telling
jillian about how
they closed our
hookah bar,
breathed
the early
fall air.