This split lip will remind me
If only for a week or so
Why I don’t like romances

that cardboard box full of my books
the suitcase that contains my clothes
will only hold my life
for a few days
while I resettle

And for an unspecified, though finite
amount of time
This record will be
Broken
And repeating
Those last few lines

But years from now I will be wondering
What was it that you said?
And in the wondering I will realise
As I run a thumb over my mouth

It doesn't matter at all.

my childhood was removed from me
inside of a blue mustang
and what remained after that
I tried to barter off the highest bidder
but I grew,
not up,
but forward
further away
slowly releasing
hands of defiance
fists chock full of hopeless words
like anger, the flavor that aches the bone,
the cold kind,
more barren than the green of Christmas lights
glimmering off the icy veneer of a white picket fence
overeager, in the apathy of theatrics,
to strip off the remainder
because the empty feeling that followed
might one day
make a decent poem

It was in that moment
That I knew you were the one,
For when you touched me,
My hand did not pull away from your grasp,
And the terrifying memories
Stayed far away where they belong.
No questions or hesitations,
No shutters as before,
Just my heart leaping with feelings of ecstasy,
Praying that you never let go.

You came without warning,
Your feet held no footsteps.
You entered in
And tied our hands behind our backs
With thick, sweet lies
And a false sense of security.
You locked the door behind you
And made us hostages,
Trapped by a thousand impossible promises.
You stole our peace at night,
Replacing them with terror
With the very same hands
That tucked us into bed.
You mentally ***** us
With your cowardly threats
And mind shifting chants.
We were left victims
And you were left victor.
Yet we wish not for our freedom
Nor our innocence back
(Though countless are the hours
We would fight to taste these again).
We only wish
That you had not broken our ankles
So that we may warn the others
Before you break down the door.

fireplaces are made to keep houses warm but mine only filled my house with smoke and coated my clothes with ash. sweaters that look soft are actually itchy when you put them on, and there is such a thing as coffee with too much cream and sugar, i’ve tasted it myself and that sickly sweetness wouldn’t leave my tongue for months and months and months until the flowers started blooming again. thanksgiving is a holiday without presents. and when i was using my fists to punch holes in the walls i realized that rooms aren’t actually rooms they’re just four walls filled with air, and that i need something to ground me.

I am a cliche poet.
I compare most of your parts
To the cosmos;
I refer to love as immortal,
The soul as ethereal,
The spirit as bird-like,
Death as a cave, surely dark and lonely,
And nature has a magnificient part
With all its pathetic fallacies,
Sunrises, sunsets, tides.
I once compared a man's legs
To an aerial roadmap,
And a ***** to a bull frog
In the Savanah.
O, the crosses I've borne to explain saying
I love you
Without sounding trite.
I may resort to prose
And dress up the poetric mantra.