the hollow between her neck and shoulders,
deep like holy water stoup,
has always been sacred to me.

i was sixteen then, foolish and in love.

i wrote her name on every piece of paper
i could find and kept her in my pocket,
showed her what the world looked like in my eyes.

she had something in her, that girl.
perhaps a cross between a crazed butcher and a catholic school kid.
with her you can never tell.

for a brief moment she let me know what heaven tastes like--
she kissed me by the pool and i lost my head.

        time flew like manic Icarus.
     suddenly, as abrupt as somebody braking hard, it was all over.

four years later and i'm still looking for my sanity.

after her
every mouth i kiss
just tastes like chlorine.

Tears and yelling
Big, raging steps
His hand spilling my bottle
of ink

The thunderous sound of the door
slamming and the silence after it

Chest pain

One hundred failed attempts to write
mediocre poetry
Red lipstick on dry lips
Untouched meals and empty beer cans

A baseball bat
A cracked windshield
And a neighbor pinning me down

More tears

And the taste of asphalt
and defeat.

in a multi-colored
tie-dyed shirt
and jeans too tight
born of a sometimes
sound mind
and other outright *****

mouth tasting of marlboro
and pink starburst
cancer and cavity
i think i spot my hearse

           is there an energy drink
                               for the soul

all i do is envy the cacti
on the window sill
sitting still
surviving on neglect
not being able to feel

when the church bell rings i hear sirens;
when i open my mouth for the holy communion
i fear that the things i am struggling to keep
are going to spill.

I am God's draft,
something He was meaning to finish but
got distracted in the process with rainbows and tulips,
the birds and the bees,
certainly the much more beautiful and riveting things.

I was born three days late so I am always apologizing to
other people for my tardiness but mostly to myself for
constantly missing the good parts.

The angel keeping an eye on me would have six fat books of
the lies I've shamelessly spat out for almost two decades now
and I wonder if they would let me stack them up so I could have
even just a peek of what heaven looks like after Atlas
finally decides to retire.

I constantly think about death, tragedy and loss.

Maybe it's because of my problematic playlist or
the sick humor of my friends. Maybe it's just me trying to find
meaning in everything and studying things but in the back of my head
I can picture the philosophers howling in laughter.

Maybe it's because they know I'm meant just to be a draft.
I read somewhere that
                               *A work of art is never finished, only abandoned.

Tracing the cracks on the wall,
my eyes are burning but I'm fighting sleep.
The lonely hum inside my brain is
telling me to do something
but loving you is exhausting
and it's been raining white flags
inside my brain since summer.

The end of us felt like an earthquake-
something tragic I never saw coming
and my God, I never saw it coming.

Every night I remind myself that the more
I close my hands the more I hurt myself
and it's not easy being valiant but
I am thinking of you
quietly now.

i. The soft hum of someone playing Claire de Lune next door and you putting your hair up and exposing your neck makes me feel like I am in a film so perfectly made I  just want to capture every single movement of you and keep them in the safest and sanest corner of my brain.

ii. You say it's such a divine night; I say I'm so sure that even the
Devil's knees would buckle when he hears you speak.
I noticed the fireflies are lighting up themselves even more brightly.
I bet it's because they are trying to outshine you, but they will all fall dead even before they do so.

iii. There's a marching band inside my chest and for some reason tonight feels like Christmas, New Years and my birthday all at once.
The other day my mom said she thinks I am getting better.
I said, yes, mom, my old self finally decided to come home.

Pianist's fingers,
preacher's tongue,
she is the dark sky
where the stars
are hung.
A living dream in
men's perfume,
she speaks of oblivion,
the nothingness
and doom.
The question you have
remains to be answered:
How could a lady
who is named after someone
so holy
declare that the key to
people's heart
is a knife?
How could you,
who is named after someone
so wise
lose your wits
when she looks at you
with those eyes?
Fortune favors the bold
has been inked on your skin
at fifteen so you shrug
and fearlessly accept
the Little and Big
Death.

save more money
by not throwing so much ****
into wishing wells for something
that you already know will never happen.

drawing
stick people
trying
not to make them look
sick
wasting time being
wasted
because when something inside
your chest feels
broken
the clock seems to be working
slower than
usual
praying
to someone in the ceiling to
please stop the
aching
looking for my sanity
just another thing
lost
the lingering question
following me around
like a red balloon
tied to my
wrist
unanswered still:
lover, do you like yourself
better
now that you're with
her?

you are not much
of a reader
but spread her
like a book
and learn her secrets

it is only *****
when it is done right

do you know what i mean

take her icy hands
and place them
on your chest

make yourself
her fireplace

let her sleep
let her rest

i think everything
was too much

for her

and his strong hands
covering your
pretty green eyes

alexander
and his surprises

fireworks before
christmas and the
new year

fancy wine and
slow dancing

a necklace
that felt like a noose
and flowers
for your heart's
funeral

for a minute there
you almost
forgot
how much you hated
*plot twists