I love the smell of waking up early
because it reminds me of a time
when I loved none, and all
and even though I knew I must eventually go home,
I would never again have to feel alone.

i’ve never had feelings for anyone who could be good for me. i’ve never been interested in someone where a good, healthy relationship could’ve resulted, and maybe that’s why i’m so jaded, because everyone i’ve ever liked has just been a distraction or a house on fire— someone i know i shouldn’t be involved with, but i’ll give myself just a few more days to run around frantically with my hands over my eyes, peaking through the cracks between my fingers, searching for things i know i don’t really need, and then i’ll dash out and run down the driveway and the smog will linger for a little while, and the neighbors will complain, and i’ll sit on the curb with my forehead on my knees, holding nothing but intangible regret. next, i’ll either get over it, or obsessively think about him and the ashes smudged on the inside of my eyelids for longer than my sanity. i’ve never really liked someone and been able to daydream about the real possibility of us turning into something greater; of tire swings and painted mailboxes and overgrown, green lawns. it’s always been pretending and fake hope and melodramatic doom. i think it’s messed up my perception of having feelings for someone, because i can never take it seriously— either i know he’s not right for me, or i know the circumstances prohibit the possibility of us. it makes me never want to give anyone a chance (i can’t even see anyone worth chance-giving) because i know how it ends. i don’t like having this closed off heart so early on; i’m too young to be this bitter.

Someday I'd like to know you in all seasons.

to know your nose red and raw in winter,
to trick you and treat you in fall,
to dance with you at a wedding in springtime.

If this were love, it would be a summer love.
But for us, there will be no Indian summer.
The full corn moon is rising fast.

Someday, I'd like to know you in all seasons.

The way the sunrise sets the sky on fire at dawn,
or the silence of the woods at 3am.
The way fingertips feel on bare skin,
or the sleepy weight on my eyes after reading too many pages.
The smell of fire in the threads of my clothes,
or the laughter of children echoing from dead-end streets.

I overflow with words for the things I love most;
their graceful presence so simple, so understood.

But you walk up behind me and
your fingers trace the muscles in my back and
your breath settles into my skin and
you whisper, "Where have you been?"



And I have no words beautiful enough to describe that.

I find it beautiful
all the ways you can
express how much
you love someone.
1. "Put your seatbelt on."
2. "Get some sleep."
3. 3 am text: are you awake?
4. "Did you get home safe?"
5. "Watch your step."
6. "How are you feeling?"
7. "I listened to your favorite song."
8. "Let me drive you home."
9. "Please be safe."
10. "Do you need company?"
Open your ears,
and pay close attention.
Because my dear I'm sure,
that somebody out there
loves you.

i guess you only like girls who are broken
and want to be hurt, like your hands
around her neck, want
bruises and cuts
in the shape of a heart,
inhaling and choking on your affection
like she needs it to breathe

translucent skin stretched across
veins that pump nicotine and you
you, you, you, you, you

judgement clouded by hyper-dependent
infatuation and the need to heal her
hollowness, although you’ll only ever be
another teardrop on her pillowcase
while she hums herself to sleep
with midnight lies

“the loss of you would be the loss of my life”

and the saddest part
is that i almost let myself fall
back into becoming that
lifeless, empty girl
once more because i thought it might
make you love me again.

i don’t want to be someone who writes in pencil
and eats too slowly and walks with eyes that
are glued to the sidewalk and tops of strangers’ feet
i’ve been underwater for so long that
i’ve forgotten lungs are meant
to be filled with air; exhaling seems
more like something found
on the second star to the right, rather
than a process that is meant to be
done twenty-three thousand times a day

i feel like an old woman who
looks in the mirror and all she can see
are wrinkles and white hair and tired eyes and
the absence of who she used to be

but i am not someone who turns away
from sunsets and pretends
that darkness is all i’ve ever known;
someone who thinks
the sun will never rise again

because the sun will rise again—
the words hiding inside of me will
find their way out, because
i cannot hold my breath forever

i am not someone who writes in pencil
and erases the bits that are too
honest and too imperfect and too real
to claim as thoughts of my own

i cannot keep my lips pursed and
hands tied behind my back,
i cannot keep pretending i am
a shadow of who i used to be

my tomorrows hold suns much
brighter than ones that have risen
over horizons of my past;
i have not reached the summit yet

there is so much more me
for me to become

each day, i am new.

The words I can’t say to you are
climbing up my throat
I keep forgetting to breathe
I miss your hands.

i want to dye
my hair and tattoo my skin
so that the changes
you’ve been noticing in me
look like they’re
on purpose.