i have been burning my whole life.
encased in immaculate flames,
flying too close to the sun
on these fragile wax wings.

— an image of icarus

ill never forget that night.
we were laying in bed,
eyes closed and half asleep,
teetering on the fence between
the world of wake
and the world of dream.

we’d been quiet for awhile now,
understandable in this hour of the night.
the room was lowly lit
by the dim glow of light
cast off computer screens,
and the air was filled
with white static sound
and your soft rhythmic breathing.

eyes closed,
i could swear you were beside me,
half convinced by the hum
of the speakers softly snoring
that i’d roll over to your body,
even though i knew
you were far away from me,
sleeping alone across the sea.
but it was something i could believe,
nearly there,
slipped into sleep.

and suddenly
you split the silence,
waking yourself up,
you called out my name with urgent pace
and i mumbled a reply
as you pulled me awake.

you spoke again,
and the words spilled from your tongue like nectar
and dripped from your lips like honey,
said with such haste
like you couldn’t get the words into the world fast enough,
as though holding it in any longer
would bring down the world burning.

it was then in that night,
one of many moments yet i’d find,
that i knew i was going to love you forever,
and
no matter of land or sea,
of sun, stars, or skies between,
could ever change that,
or keep you away from me.


―  “i love you more than anyone or anything i have ever loved or ever will,” 12:37 am, 10.08.17, what you said to me.

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

i held an old friend to my wrist tonight
panicked and unable to breath
a mess of sickening sobs
he pressed down against me
holding me in a comforting embrace
the tears soon ceased
and again i could breath
beneath my wristwatch band
i’ll keep this forbidden secret
nobody can know but me
nobody can know but me.

— relapse

she was war,
a collection of cuts and old scars,
armored in the pain of her past,
bones of ash and thorn.
blood like spilled scarlet wine
splashed across the bathroom floor,
she cried alone—
unseen,
unknown.
but for all the tears, she rose to her feet
and sat upon her barbwire throne
for these bones still ache,
this body still bleeds,
these lungs still breathe,
and this heart still beats,
still beats,
still beats.

— my heart is not a home for cowards

i often find myself
wishing the rain would wash me away,
that a storm would shake my leaves
and rip up my roots,
and carry me along the waves.


― i've heard drowning is a peaceful way to die

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

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

i thought it would be easier this time
but it wasn’t,
it never is.
those last goodbyes,
that last kiss,
it never is,
it never is.

— saying goodbye never gets easier

tell me again the story about the sun and the moon,
how they were separated by night and day,
by time and space,
tell me again how they fell in love,
and crossed the sea of stars to be

together.

— tell me again our story

she'll convince you it was your bark not her bite, even when she holds your ****** body in her maw.
​
— don't believe the beast

when roses rooted in your heart,
you let their beauty grow.
but in the beauty of their blood red petals,
you forgot about their thorns.

— beware what lies beneath the beauty

you cannot silence my voice,
erase who i am and stand to be.
i will not be pushed to nonexistence,
for my story is not written in pencil,
it is written in ink.

― and i will leave my mark on history

there is a book within my heart
of poems you've never seen
poems you've never read
poems you'll never read.
and from deep within my heart
with my pen of black ink
i hope that you might read them
and say that you still love me.


― i'm afraid not everything i write is pretty

the difference between feeling guilty
and feeling ashamed
is that society creates shame
and guilt is within yourself.
and i do not feel guilty for who i am.


― something i learned about being queer

be angry,
be furious.
a storm of torrential rain and hellfire.
but when you’re done
and your seas have calmed,
come home.

— i'll be waiting by the docks

you can dip your words in honey and sugarcoat your wicked tongue,
but nothing can change your rotten heart or change what you have done.

― poetry doesn't make what you did pretty

growing up has been holding eulogies
for the people that i used to be
maybe that’s why i’ve been wearing black
since i was bruise kneed and fourteen
when i look in the mirror i don’t
recognize the girl i see but when she
stares back there’s a sort of comfort,
in her hunger pain frame...
grown out of the cracks of the city
like a **** on the sidewalk—
surviving despite being stepped on.

when i was older i knew who i was,
bright eyed and bushy tailed,
bruising my lungs with the songs i’ve sung
in sacrifice for this body is a temple but it
is far from sacred and i am the god to
whom it is devoted.

it’s raining salt like sunday nights,
self doubt and sea water,
everything i could be escapes from my
mouth faster than i can breathe—
i woke up tired seven years ago
and i haven’t recovered since.  

i wear myself like my second best skin,
we are the mask and the wearer
and every me is me
the past is just as infinite as the future
but i’ve been holding eulogies since i was fourteen
and mourning is always harder on monday’s when everything is new but me.

— when i was older

i do not speak like a poet.
my words are clumsy and callous
and i often trip over my own tongue.
there is no beauty to my words
or thought to my form,
and my voice does not fall soft and slow
like honey song, drizzled sweetly into willing ears.
rather it is raspy and quick-tongued,
laced with mispronounced words and oddly said accents.
my sentences race ragged and jumpy,
with capricious contours and half-finished phrases,
and i often lose my train of thought.
impulsive and unrefined,
i do not speak like a poet.

— but on paper i am a different person

how fitting, i thought,
that it rained the day you left.
a torrential downpour
took away all my breath.
but as quick as it came it left
and the rain ceased to be
and i was left in the dark of my car
just the sound of the road beneath me.

— to say i miss you would be an understatement

rain against the rooftop,
an old melody in my head,
and a bittersweet taste against my tongue.
early may’s rain falls quick and soft
to april’s soft flower bed,
and steals away the setting sun.

it is with quick resolve
and soft delay
that i sit here,
overcast,
alone today.


— a night in may

my mouth is full of burning candles
and hot wax seeps from between my teeth.
my tongue knows nothing but rage and fire
and i don’t know whether to swallow this flame
and choke on the smoke until the heat burns holes in my throat,
or to spit it out
and watch everything around me burn down.

— impulse control

and when you complain
about the bite you receive
do not forget
who sharpened these teeth.

— you taught this dog to bite

the villainy you teach me i will execute—
after all,
the devil has his miracles too.

—and i am no saint

lips wrapped in regret,
the bitter taste of betrayal.
tipsy-tongued we tangled,
breaking all the rules at once.

— i asked if you’d remember when i should've asked if you'd regret

silence fills the room once more,
sitting behind your locked door.
open your eyes, a notification rang.
you’ve fallen asleep with the tv on again.
distractions, noise to keep your mind away,
one more play,
one more play,
one more play.
are you still watching?
are you still there?
or have you again let your mind wander elsewhere.
change the subject, change the story,
write another allegory.
turn off the screen, lock the door,
it's time to fall asleep once more.


― i don’t know how to make things better

it came like midnight cold,
slowly through the cracks of unlocked doors.
it’s wasn’t until it spilled from my mouth
that i began to know;
this bitter black ink
seeping from between my teeth,
belonged to you,
and not to me.
without apology.

— i refuse to let your bitter black heart bleed into mine any longer

i am shattering like glass
as everything around me slips away
reality fragmenting, i reach to grab shards
sharp enough to slit my own wrists

i return to tendencies of self destruction
like returning to an abusive ex
because even when things are bad
there is comfort in the familiarity pain.

— dis(comfort)

you claim you've changed,
and maybe that's true,
but not where it matters,
not where it's due.

— a snake can shed its skin too

my eyes are not blue,
they do not wash away your worries
in their soft ocean hue.

my eyes are dark brown,
and they carry the weight of the world
in their harsh earthy tone.


— heavy is the cost

and so today i drew open the curtains of my ribcage and i brushed the dust off my heart and i forgave you.

— an excerpt from a letter to you

do i believe in god?
i’m afraid i do not have an answer to that,
it’s hard to believe when all you see is this world’s cruelty.
but if they have seen the things i’ve seen
and experienced what in this world has been,
then god’s eyes must be just as tired,
just as sad,
just as done as me.

— what do you believe?

ever since i was little, i have always imagined where i wanted to live, a dream home if you will. it has never really changed, it’s always been about the same. somewhere soft and secluded, surrounded by the trees and flourishing with flowers and fauna. where moss grows on the stone path and walls and rolls off the roof. a place where old souls live, full of mists and fogs of early morning mystery.

it had to rain often, i loved the rain, the smell, the sound. rolling over in the early morning to the gentle rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops against the rooftop, the distinct perfume of petrichor wafting through a cracked window. i always wanted water nearby too, i’ve always loved the water. a pond, a lake, a river, a creek, anything really, if there was water i was happy. i didn’t want a very big house either, rather something small, something that made me feel warm, cozy, comfortable. and i wanted big windows, it needed to have a room with big, tall windows to look out of, something to let the sun shine in and soak up my melancholy thoughts, shine the shadows away. more than anything i dreamed of a home full of love.

but when i dreamed of my home, built its walls and designed its decor, i never imagined i’d find my home in a person. i never imagined i’d find my forest alive in your eyes, ever changing colors of the earth and sky ablaze in your soft and loving gaze, the sun lacing through the leaves in your smile, my sunshine. i never imagined i’d find the rhythm of the rain with my head against your chest and hand entangled in your own, listening to the life in your heartbeat. i never thought i’d find my mystery in the mists of your mind, brilliant beyond belief and capable of crafts and creations far beyond the depths of mine own. my warm, my cozy, my comfortable.


― you are my home

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'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

i am better now,
but sometimes there are still blisters where i once had calluses,
and bruises still deep in my bones,
so please be patient with me.


― i am still a work in progress

i don’t find myself writing love poetry as often anymore.
i wonder to myself;
is it because i have lost the words for which to describe you,
or have i lost you to the words?

— i don’t want to know the answer

sometimes i feel like a dog
loyal to its owner for all the wrong reasons
always returning with a wagging tail
after being hit
starved
beat
and abandoned.

— separation anxiety

i am in love with the ocean,
and while he is beautiful and strong,
he is turning my heart into a cliff.
eroding me away,
bit by bit.

— i'm afraid soon there will be nothing left
​

fists clenched with white knuckled force,
my nails pierce this skin and
blood trickles down fingers from these
perforated palms, and i can’t help
but to think how this pain
is nothing but a distraction.

— biting your tongue to stop the tears only goes so far

you cut the ties with silver scissors and burnt the bridge with fictitious fires but you still insist you're the one who fell and scraped your knees with ****** fists on broken glass and sharp white teeth.

things have changed and the past is dead. these bridges you burnt are not meant to mend.

give up. go away. that's it―
the end.


― you're not the victim, you never were

your hebenon heart with blood of black ink
of loxotic lies and twisted truths sink
deep in your body you make yourself home
seep in your poison to blood and to bone
make yourself see the truth you believe
not the truth that truly would be.


― a mirage of your own manipulation

i turned around and shut the door but you still had the key.
so i changed the locks and hoped again
you wouldn't find your way back to me.

but you'd pick the locks and burn down the door
until there was nothing left anymore,
so this time i'll leave no door
for you to open and get to me.

― this is no longer your home, stay out

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

even on the days we don’t speak,
i whisper i love you to the wind,
hoping it will be carried to you on the breeze.

— i never go a day without saying i love you

we were like strangers who knew each other very well, meeting for the first time in a fleeting moment. our bodies foreign to each other’s touch, all passing glances and timid hands, but it could never last too long. someone always had to go, someone always had to return home, and there was never enough time. we’d become strangers again, dreaming of good morning i love yous spoken in tongue, written between skin, read between limbs. and slowly memory would fade, skin on skin fall faint, until all remnants of our existence withered away.


― until we meet again

i stare into the mirror and tired eyes stare back. a broken smile, ink drops dripping from tilted teeth, licorice liquid pulsating through vaurien veins. i can hear the beating of my heart in my ears, echoes of once was, this is, and will be's. she whispers to me. who is it that holds this heart, is it you or is it me?

the mirror stares back into me and wicked tongues weep. what words do you say and what do they mean?  what does it matter with words you can’t keep. static stains this tabescent mind, ink drops dripping like spilled scarlet wine, whiskey words of whispered repeats. who is it that holds this heart, is it you or is it he?

because that's exactly who you are, you'd crash your car and blame the road, hang yourself then blame the rope.


― victim complex

i’m so in love with your sleep shrouded voice,
drowsy doused rasp and torpid tongued.
rest against me and whisper behind my ear―
i love you.


―lay with me a little bit longer

we all have shadows, for you see a shadow cannot exist on its own, it cannot live without a source to feed. so it attaches to those bright and full of love and it steals through toxic tongue and tainted touch every inch of light and every ounce of love it can, and it eats and it eats and it eats.

and it never ends.

the cycle goes on for years, for days, for weeks. sometimes one attachment is not enough to satisfy its hunger, and the shadow finds another, sneaking behind backs and through unlit back streets, slipping beneath bodies under messy white sheets.

until it finds what it needs.

it eats to feed an unsatisfiable hunger that’s seeded deep in its very soul. you see, a shadow is utterly empty. a shell of those around them cast upon pre-fixed forms, void of kindness and empathy, full of lies and false sympathy. only fictitious constructions of conned complex personality.

you may be convinced at first, you see, shadows are very well-versed with words, their honey-dipped hells and counterfeit kindness are nearly believable and you might even feel warmth for awhile. but shadows love to play tricks, manipulate your mind and play mischief on your eyes. dancing in the dark of the night in the darkest of hours, when the false is most easily believed, it’s not until daylight often we see the falsity revealed that we’ve been forced to perceive. turning pain into poetic verse, a shadow will twist and contort even the sweetest of words into a sweet mirage of manipulation to force you to see the lie they’ve created in the image of innocence.

they’ll feed off your good of heart and affection so sweet, and drink from the pools of light that you seep. and they’ll eat and they’ll eat and they’ll eat, until there’s nothing left and you’re completely empty. they’ll drain your soul and drop your heart and move on to the next, but keep your name for later use. because when love grows back and you feel full once more, a shadow will return again to reclaim its host and restart this game it’s since provoked. but then a shadow will slither and slip away, retreating to cobweb corners and feigning false pain, always finding someone else― you ―to blame.
but a shadow will never admit to its own darkness, for it’s convinced it’s awash in light, the epitome of kindness and love, that it could never be anything but the victim.

but it’s afraid.

because it knows if it takes one real look at who they are and what they’ve done, their self-conceived, perfect being will wither away and melt to no one.


― calling you a ghost would be wrong, for you see, even ghosts eventually go away.