an open window,
the smell of night's cool breeze,
static from an open laptop,
the sound of you sleeping next to me.


― subtle moments of bliss

i think i might disappear today,
take to the water and wind.
sink to the ocean and fade away
until i have become nothing.


— it’s quiet at the bottom of the sea

how long
will your heart wait for me?
will it be forever
or until tomorrow morning?


― we talk of forever as if tomorrow is even promised

you dye your hair a new color,
dawn your favorite outfit,
and paint your face pretty
with palettes of persimmon hue.

you tint your lips a pale pink,
brush your cheeks with blush,
and line your lashes with liquid ink,
but your eyes are still dull and broken blue.

you glance in the mirror,
looking at who you are,
this body this heart this soul,
hoping to see a reflection of something new.

but nothing will change,
nothing will be different,
nothing can fix the ugly inside of you.


― you’re only as pretty as your heart is

tonight,
i am lonely.
tomorrow,
i will wake the same.
wrapped in sheets instead of arms,
in a bed absent of affection,
far from the only love i know.


— tonight i am lonely

i awoke
to the piercing sound
of an alert,
a change of weather
in the sky.
severe thunderstorms,
warnings scattered,
rain throughout the night.
it's 3am
and the rain has not yet
begun to pour,
but i think i'll stay up
just a little bit longer,
just to hear the thunderstorm.


— april showers

i exist in conveniences;
in habitual i love yous
and obligated i’m here for yous.
in calculated i cares
and loathsome i’ll listens.

i exist in conveniences:
i love you (when it’s convenient)
i’m here for you (when it’s convenient)


— i exist (when it’s convenient)

i am so tired
of breaking my own heart
over misconstrued manipulations
of the english language.

— a paranoid poet

i write poetry of you every night as i fall asleep,
hoping that perhaps when i wake that i might keep
this perfect image, this perfect moment,
this perfect feeling of you lying next to me.

― sweet dreams

i've cut myself in places that hands could never reach, torn open scars in places that can never be touched. i've got a bad habit of searching for things that hurt me in places that are not easily healed, places where blood and bruises are intangible and bandages cannot stop the bleeding. so i bleed. i bleed and i hurt and i heal and i bleed again. a sort of cycle of self torture, these hebenon habits of the heart.


― it's time to break the cycle

my past is part of who i am,
i cannot erase it.
it’s written in the books collected on the
bookshelves between my ribs,
stacked upon my spine.

the stories of who i am are carved into me,
scripted on my skin,
branded on my bone,
there is no part of me that is not built upon
this blood of black ink.

i am a collection of my own tragedies,
of my own comedies,
of my own romances.
a library of my own experiences.

not all the collection is good,
some books are quite damaged,
but not all the collection is bad,
my pages are still full of love.

you can pick out which books to read,
which stories you like
and which you’d rather leave,
but it’s still
there,
my past is still a part of me.


― personal library