Her name is Tiffany.

We met when

our orbits collided

                                  and crash landed,

on a wooden picnic table

                       in the dead of night.

I saw the world in her eyes—

and she had this spirit about her
       that made me want to follow
                her with an umbrella
                       the rest of my days
                             so she wouldn’t
                                    even be
                                      bothered
                                                by the rain.

I swore, I’d make her believe in                        h u m a n i t y.

Conversation, spit-balled from her lips like a machine gun

trigger stuck—

we tore through topics

                    like bullets tear through skin,

I tried my best to keep up.

We dead ended on the subject of children.
She grew silent, pale.

                      “I should be the mother of twins” she stammered.

I’ve been told I have quite the poker face, but in that moment

                                                                               I know she saw.

Turning her head as if to answer my unspoken question

“Miscarriage”
                        she breathed.

I spent the next however long soaking in her story, like a sponge.
I could tell,
                               she doesn’t do this often.

I have no respect for fathers who stain the honor of father
with a ******'s blood.

For boyfriends who can’t hear the word “No.”

over the sound of their
                                          d e s i r e.

These men painted her the color of smashed hymens.

On her wedding night,

she won’t forget.

She can’t give                                            what’s been stolen.

She finishes.
I exhale—breaking the silence first.

She looks at me, with all the innocence they must have stolen from her,

and i wonder

if she can

hear me

b r e a k


This, is the kind of story you read about.

I had no words to fix her— I couldn’t fix her.

All I knew was I wanted to sear my flesh and

m
   e
       l
         t

into the crevices of her broken self

and convince her

It will be okay.

“I swear, I’ll make you believe in
**h u m a n i t y.”

I stepped into the shower after taking the agonizing minutes to remove my baggy clothes, knit with my self-esteem, from my cryptic body.

I shivered as the ice caps of my swollen heart flexed.

As the water danced about my body, I felt you.

If I opened my mind, squinted my eyes, and cocked my head forty-five degrees to the right

I could convince myself it really was you.

The water trickled over the places you’d tickle your fingers.

Rained on my face where you used to spontaneously plant your kisses.

I clenched my eyes tight- I can’t bear to lose this moment.

My corpse of a heart was ignited by the heat of the water

and the thought of you.

I breathed in your memory and it flooded my cerebral cortex.

Sensory overdrive.

Soon, my shower ended and I begrudgingly stepped onto the linoleum floor.

When I dare steal a glance at my somber reflection, I felt the iciness coming back.

My heart hardened.

You taught me how to love myself.

Now look at me.

I walked into Walgreen’s that night
              absorbed in my own little world.

Soon after entering,
I made my way to the line.
My eyes
             d       a      n  c  e d        

to the crescent-moon shaped scar
    adorning the young clerk’s neck.

With the gentleman in front of me,
he spoke of
camouflage and machine guns.
                                                                            Earlier times when he
                                                                               could only see his
                                                                                  family through
                                                                                     the lens of
                                                                                            a
                                                                                      webcam.
When  he first learned what it took
                                       to be a man.

And when he learned what true loss
really felt like.

It’s my turn.
I step     f      o   r w ard
and stare directly into his eyes
and wonder

how he ended up here.


His face doesn’t give away much,
he’s painted on a cordial smile
and the air between us seeps
with the remnants
of small talk.

But I can’t help wondering.
I wonder, if he knows

he’s more than he’s been told.
       more than he’s settled for.
       more than the orders he was commanded to obey.
       more than the lines he was expected to cross.
       more than the monster he had to become.
                                                                                   To survive.

I can’t help but wonder

how he’s ended up here.

Overseas— he’s ranked
but now that he’s home
on friendly soil,                                    he’s thrown into department store
                                                                 positions and temporary jobs.
I can only hope he’s better off than some of his friends

tossed into
psychiatrists offices.

But I wonder,
I wonder what memories might decide to plague his dreams.
While he tries to figure out
which pill alleviates which painful recollection.
Which part of his past will come back to haunt him today
and which of his friends lives will flash before his eyes while he tries to sleep.

Norepinephrine firing through his brain
                                 like the gunshots he had to deliver.

The U.S government is so quick to draft,

but hasn’t learned how to welcome home.

They hide their veterans in the dark corners of psych wards,

allow them to get lost in the depths of their own minds,

while the PTSD
                                   eats away whatever is left.

These men fight for countries who don’t know what to do with them afterwards.
What they both need to learn:

There is life after war.

Her hips align with the setting sun,
as outstretched arms dance above her head.

She sways, trying to get lost
in the movement of time.

The rhythm beats, as her heart breathes.
This is all she knows.
This is all she has left.

She dances to remember.
She dances so they won't forget.
This is all they have left.

I am from paradise

which never failed to include rainy, cold summers

and heatstroke winters.

Where mountain ranges were as small as pebbles,

and pebbles,

were only meant for skipping.

I am from that spot in the sunset

where the

rustic oranges meet up with the rolling blues of the ocean

and have coffee.

Where endless meets infinity

and everyone wears ugly Christmas sweaters.

I am from where Harriet Tubman

and Nat Turner type dreams take root.

Where black and white meet to make purple,

green, and everything in between.

I am from where dreams fly

and people never stop laughing.

From two way conversations with strangers

and love letters instead of obituaries.

I am from here.

Before the time when things went wrong. Before the time we knew things could go this wrong. Before the initial hook, before the rescue, before the remission. Before the loss and before the pain. Before the creation of such a substance. Before the need for such a substance. Before, substance. Before the lost memories, the funeral. Before the hospital sirens and before the need for hospital sirens. Before mortality, immortality, and the strive for either. Before dependency. Before the time of wanting to stop. Before the time of needing to stop. Before being strong was not enough. Before the break, the collapse, the relapse. Before the prayer for redemption. Before the need for redemption. Before redemption.

Before it was too late.

If I’m being honest,
whenever we speak and you let truth
breeze through your pursed lips

you
move
me.

Move me like an earthquake rumbles the earth
when it dares show off its beauty.

Speaking with you is like reading a book backwards
there is no need for exposition—
i hear my smile in your rustic voice,
and if I ever traced my pale fingers
along the maps of your mind
it’d feel like
home.

I’ll be your resolution.

I want to write love letters
d
o
w
n
your arms
so you’ll finally learn the truth about yourself.
Paint your future on the inside of your eyelids
so when you close your eyes, searching your soul
for something worth living for
you’ll be reminded
not to hate yourself so much.

Every sigh your battered spirit releases
I promise, I will swallow it whole.
Let it dissolve in the pits of my stomach
and call my soul now to stand.
I want to keep you close.
                                        Come closer.

You
You’re an internal conflict
just waiting to erupt.
Fire and water
drop in your gut
like Armageddon.
You are too big
for your own skin.
u
  n
   w
    r
  a
v
e
l

it is beautiful to overcome
in a world where
struggle is just a synonym for
weakness.
Be solemn in a world that
has forgotten how to value silence.

You hide behind abstraction
but i see you come alive
on stage.
you just want someone
to stick around long enough.

I aim to bring you from behind
the walls you cower,
tell you that
you are the most beautiful
combination of DNA
if only I could arrange the
twenty six characters of the alphabet
to do you justice.

You just want someone to figure you out.
Don’t give up hope.

I’m desperately trying to.