A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

i took your name
as my own;
i liked it,
and wanted it love it
as much as i loved you;
because if i do not have you
i have something to hold on to

for a boy i used to know
i’m sorry.
you deserved a better friend;
one that didn’t hurt you
a person who left good enough alone
a friend that knew how to make it better
there is more i wish i did for you

for a boy i used to love
i still care;
still longingly wait for you,
waiting for you to call again
there is more i wish i said to you

for a boy who touched me
i said no
i’m sorry you didn’t hear me

for a boy who loved me—

m y
   b o d y
       i s
           t o o m u c h

m y
     b r a i n
    d o e s
             n o t
       e n o u g h