should i inherit
the good days
and find myself
rolling on grassfields
teeth bared and barefoot,
i will think of you.

and should
i dance around
on barren land,
nimbuses by my ankles
and still river,
i will think of you.

my dear,
i’m afraid
i cannot fathom a day
that i dont.
i would not want to.

What a waste it is—
to be human
and be contained.

Trauma makes a joke out of your peace—
like a circus visiting town
leasing under your skin.
There is no punchline.

there's a cavalry
that gushes out like river water
when the wall tilts
a few staring games away
and yet its never a game
until it is--
a house of cards
and you,
a sweet nosedive.
sleeves long enough
to swallow hands that flinch
from careful collision
and i'll tell you my name
and maybe where i'm from
and maybe where i went to school
but i'll save the rest
like a maybe-midnight-snack.
i'll fold my body in half
'til you could only get past
the purgatory of where
i deem myself unbreakable.
i sometimes get cramps
from choosing to remain
a mystery
long enough to be a mystery to myself
so i apologize
if i sometimes mistake
the butterflies for wasps.
a mummy but in caution tapes,
anxiety like a badge of honor.
i guess what im trying to say is,
i swear,
i like you.
but the words
come out like bricks.

when was the last time your stomach
didn’t feel like a clogged sink?
the only thing you’ve been bringing to war
are gritted teeth and origami spine,
and the battalion you’re up against
come undone from your chest.
cling onto the yellow-green pill
like the omnipotent God you only knew
but you know **** too well it doesn’t keep you alive
it just drags you through another minute
and then another
and then another
like a prayer gasping for breath.
and oh,
you’ve forgotten what its like
to love like its not two hands
coiled around your neck.
bring back the ****** smile.
the morning that smelled of daisies
and felt like silk.
you live a life
that is selfish of do-overs.
but the mirror infront of you
offers a mountain
of lifelines.

darling,
need your pulse not spell it out for you--
you are the lifeline.

prompt: write about the way the rain makes you feel

07/18/19
12:39 am

I've greeted grayer skies
behind my bedroom window
like new blossoming skin.
The rhythm of the pitter-patter,
like a serenade to summer,
like a late-season peach,
soft with many bruises.
Listen —
there’s a kind of tender
in the rain
that leaves one to their smallness
as the world washes away.
Tell me,
what is the right way to miss you?
Because I’ve peeled away every weaponry
I’ve built from the rubble,
tooth and nail,
clumsy hands,
bricked walls
tightly woven into suffering,
And yet I am still
a welcome mat
to your name.
I greet your presence,
like downpour--
teeth bared,
but no longer quivering.

mgv

every heartbreak at 21
will make the ground beneath your feet tremble
and you will feel disposable
like the impression they will leave you behind
on white-and-blue-striped creased sheets.
like the spotify playlist youve forgotten about
and the walls you thought were impenetrable.
but when youve learned
that your legs stand like the Parthenon
instead of autumn twigs
you'll unlearn the concept
of a boy's ability
to cut through your steel teeth
and garden bed tongue.

every heartbreak at 22
will teach you to plant flowers
and not to pick them.
and when a wound reopens
like salt on papercut
you'll recall a memory
not too far
and you will have mastered turning
those tsunami eyes
into a calm sea
instead of an enforced desert.

you are 23;
and the city could no longer fit
into the palm of your hands.
you'll realize it's overbearing enough
that people break hearts all the time
and will never have to worry
about seeing the damage
on their morning train.

you are 23
and healing
doesnt quite mean like what it used to.
every heartbreak
comes back in a second.
and in the next,
you get on with your day;
the same creased sheets,
the same bitter-tasting coffee,
the same route home.
only that home
always varied in meaning.