"to love is
to hurt,"
you whisper,
eyes red and
bones hollow;

ah,
whispers a
voice,
*but to hurt is
to be alive

Sticky sweet memories
cling to the side
of my mason jar mind

Like blackberry jam.

Berries plucked
and kisses stolen
beneath a sultry summer sky.

Nothing but sweat and
white teeth and
purple stained finger tips.

But now it's cold--
too cold
for blackberries.

I spread what's left
of the jam
on some dry toast

And savor the taste.

It’s such a naïve thing to say
That I miss you the second you exit my line of vision
And compared to every day for the rest of our lives
This moment is only a glitch in time
But it’s as if every time we say goodnight
It’ll be the last time
Because each night away from you feels like a lifetime
And the only lifetime I ever wish to have
Is the one where we only exist together,
Skin on skin
In an apartment made of us
With nothing but the air we’ve exhaled
Occupying the space between our bodies,
However little that space may remain.

735 days since my skin touched yours

In one second—a universe existed: each
with 735 Earths, each
with 735 cities, each
with 735 hundred sets of lovers, like us.

In one second—each planet had
735 extra suns. 735 cities burnt to
the end of their matchstick in 1/735th of a second,
the same second that we had last touched.

You asked me, then, if I ever thought I had loved anyone in high school. I didn't answer you, because all I could think of was if a world could feel the difference between the burn of 735 and 736 suns.


They can.

not everything is a big deal
just a little something I've been trying to remind myself of these days

I live in a very old house with yellow walls and tall ceilings and creaky doors
Every day I subconsciously make the same wrinkley dissatisfied face towards the smell of rotting peaches that line the walkway
The house is much prettier when everything is dead
I haven't made love in this house
though it's not to be said that love has been absent
In fact I have never loved anyone or anything more in any other house than in this old slanted set of walls
It was here that I began to fall in love with myself and with my life
It was here that recovery became more of a lifestyle and less of a chore
Now I here on my bed in my tiny room in my tiny old house with my tiny little puppy
thinking about all of the things that used to keep me up at night
and none of it matters anymore
because not everything is a big deal
-