I miss the way my name slipped through your lips the way water slips through finger tips
and i miss the way our finger tips were laced better than any shoe
i miss the way we'd lay with one another as though we could get lost in each other but i could never be more lost than when i looked into your eyes
i miss the way you calmed the storms in my heart,
the way your loving hands formed works of art, constructed the safest of landings right from the start.
and i miss the way you used to run your fingers through my hair, as you'd sit and stare with whispers in your breath and a tenderness in your movement saying "i care"
I miss the way you didn't look through me like most, you looked deep inside, picked up every flaw and regret and made a toast to the wonders that made me me.
i miss the way i knew in one swift glance, from the look of your stance, what the chance of forever was, and it was almost as promised hitlers suicide, and how you carefully entered the dark valleys of my heart, where others had shyed.
and i miss the way we slotted together better than the little counters in the game of connect four
and i miss the way you'd hold open the door to your soul
i miss the way we reminisced and promised to grow old
i miss the way i felt when you hung a sign on your heart saying sold
and i was elated because though it was belated i knew i was the lucky one to have such an important piece of you
and i miss the way we'd do all those things we did between the sheets, the way our eyes would meet, before we closed them together and embarked further into our romance,
As we'd partake in a dance, that only we knew.
i miss the way you planted butterflies in my stomach and fireflies in my eyes, the element of suprise when you came home with flowers
i miss the hours we spent just laying content
i miss reading and rereading those messages you sent, the beauty of your intent
i miss the taste of your lips
the way my hands felt around your hips
i miss the way those glasses framed the most beautiful masterpieces I've ever seen, the way you'd take something i had no understanding of, and show me what it means
i miss the way you filled the cavities of my heart, with hugs and i love yous which warmed me better than any cup of coffee ever could
The way you made me feel, so, so good
I miss the way you etched my initials into your the insides of your eyelids and i did the same with yours
I miss the way you calmed the shores
And i miss the way you'd sparkle and shine as you'd sit and remind me that its okay not to be okay and its okay that we're gay because we didn't have to fit into social formality, i miss the clarity, the calming of the raging wars in my mind, the directions when i had no idea where to start to find myself
i miss the way you couldn't have cared less about wealth because you said as long as we had happiness and health we were already millionaires.
I miss the way you took the fires in me that could have burnt down entire cities, and slowly but surely extinguished them,
I miss the way we tied ourselves to one another with double knots until we forgot to tell each other just how lucky we were, and until we started to stop showing each other how much we cared but instead the bruises we bared from the only person that had ever cared so much it hurt
until we lost touch, both physically and mentally until the insides of you and me began to unravel from each other internally
until happiness could only be found in setting free the one thing I've never wanted to hold onto most,
until the host that had kept my heart beating and my hopes alive buried them in the tears that fell from your eyes. And i despise the way
the only place id ever felt like i was home was now the only place id ever felt so alone.

Breathe sweet
tiger lilies,
let their aroma
cling to skin spots
like summer-
fruit you’ll soften,
and we’ll throw you
in the garden
to decompose.

I hope the rain sinks deep into the blackened cracks of the street
Outside my house there stands alone a naked ghost—
No flesh or bone.
It flies up to my window’s screen
And through its fickle mesh
Façades are no more,
Yet they are everything:
A story drags at the corners of your eyes
And the truth looms like the shadow under your
Chin up,
Chin. Up.
Positivity ephemeral as the fierce electricity in the night sky—
May I become a lightning rod: “The Light Catcher.”
May I keep what’s left of you,
The rest of you…?
And, m-might you burn forever?

Nothing will taste as sweet
With you
Gone.

The tulip phase,
The daisy haze,
Where daffodils sway
The wind is grey—
The light so white,
Shadowless May.

Life is…competition.
Everything starts with “She’s a good person, but…”
And what does that even mean—‘good’?
It’s such a tricky word…
It trudges and collects, rolling and sticking and melting into a mess.
It covers and confuses.
It oozes…
‘Good.’
It is cavernous and claustrophobic all at once.
Because what do you tack onto that word and what do you leave out?
And how much is too much before good is no longer good?
Before it turns to flaws and flossing teeth—
Revealing surprising grime on white napkins.
Now she’s “‘Mary,’ the kind soul with an eating disorder.”
Life is disorder.
***** fingers constantly filing and misfiling,
sealing cases closed with oversized labels that undermine the contents inside and the very boxes that hold them.
And what does it mean then?
When you are a rectangle and I am a square,
When Mary is placed on the shelf over there?
I am not scared
of the brown—not ***** blonde—roots creeping up from the top of my hair,
of the pimple on my chin.
But what makes me cringe is your satisfied grin when you notice that her daughter
is not quite as thin…
not quite as thin;
It is a sliver of a win,
Like the sliver of cake that you take to your plate
for fear that your trousers might break—
and then—
gasp you’ll belong with them,
cardboard congregated in the corner,
stacked and packed together,
the ones with jean-zippers torn asunder.
I cannot help but wonder
what life is…

Poking and pinching our skin like birds plucking feathers—pulling out their identity. Constantly criticizing, comparing, implementing tyrannical tactics, self-inflicted derision—we are own authoritarians. We are desperately squeezing, writhing, wriggling into the holes and molds constructed by a warped society who views beauty through superficiality. Society who designs and confines and creates its own lines that, if crossed, break the connection, forever shattering our identification with the majority, popularity—the thing we are taught to seek without chance to question the foundation of these seemingly inherent beliefs. And we are pink and tender like birds broiled, presented, stripped bear and embellished with glazes and dressings, carved to perfection. Perfection, in lipstick—on bathroom floors—we stare, at scales, forever our eyes are cast down, on curling toes, shying away from the numbers and standards and “where do I fit?”—on this number line, through this length of time, where I wander and adhere to the brick wall—a mantle piece, a mantle piece. Steadfast and granite for you to pause and stare at me, but the eyes are too many, too cold and stinging, the scorching the shaking the rage and the breaking—the breaking, a sudden release. A fall to the wooden floor with the age spots and the scuff marks, the cracks and the creaks—the beauty in pieces that nip the wrist and ***** the blood, and the air is surprising and clean against the wound that leads to the truth.