stories can be poems
and this is a story
but when i call it a story
i mean i hope it has an ending
because when i found out i might have cancer
all i could think about was that end
the post-****** descent into
nothing
final full stop
no more pages
no more breath
because they say beauty is
in the eye of the beholder
and my eyes are
magnificent
malignant
my detriment
pop a piece of spearmint
because when you think you'll die
but you don't want people
to feel bad for you
you tell them only the good news

i am nothing
more than a messy tourist
don't do more than make
me a couch because despite my words
i will likely not
be staying long
see
i am clumsy
i drop things like your
heart
i scramble to collect the pieces
realize i was never that good
at art
just throw my efforts into the bin
how careless i am
to think that your life is a bin
that it's something i even had permission
to touch
when i come to town and want to stop by
maybe we can go dancing
like streets lights that are slow songs
not even red can make us stop
until you realize
i hitched a ride as soon as my thumb
wasn't wrapped in your hand
let me go.
don't invite me back.
i'll be on the road for a while
telling stories about
midnight memories, chilly museums, the sound of your heart beat
i will say
it sounded like home.
but i was too careless to let her hear the beat of my own

I’m sorry, Mother, for being something of a failure
And all the broken things
When I was a kid, I was angry
I kicked walls and dropped the dishes
I blamed it on slippery hands

Also, I’m sorry about the lies

I’m sorry I’m not a hero
Or brave

I couldn’t solve the problems of our family;
I tried
But I suppose passive-aggression
Isn’t the best form of problem solving

I am sorry
That your life is different than you planned
Even though it’s good now
I’m sorry I have nothing to do with that good
That you’re OK without me
You’re a better grandmother than I am a son

I am sorry that
You’re happier than I’ve ever seen you
And I hardly ever see you
Anymore

i do not care
how loudly you speak to me
as long as it's true

They called it weakness
You called it ashes
Regardless from
Where you came
You were born into
This strength

I don't know how to accept compliments
Like I don't know how to load a gun
And I'm afraid to learn because
I've never wanted to **** myself for trying to learn something new

Do not recoil when I forget how to hug
Because I've never wanted to escape something so badly that felt like home

Nomads can only remember what home means
When they taste it in freshly baked bread
And when you don't have to knock to come in
I have been knocking on vacant doors
And my knuckles didn't offer their blood in exchange for your absence

I do not know how to ask for help
Like I know how to load of gun
Because I guess a little practice is all it takes
And I could only focus on one thing at a time

I am living in the ruins
of a
broken heart