my pulchritude me
petrichor my visage
Of me in a puddle

felicitously adjectively
so not well drafted nor composed
my bald spot showing

in the mirror if I turn my head and look sideways
terse a wrong hair rightly covering a bald spot of imagery

like black paint on a pink scalp trying to be
visceral, I comb the ugly away,
I think.

this new beginning is really beautiful
but the temptations aren’t easy
my heart is here
but my mind is out there
reminiscing about the old
times with another goddess
help me escape this trip of thoughts

2am, we’d crawl to the stars
we’d let the galaxies illuminate our scars
you’d undress your temple
and feed mine with the art of passion
my thoughts finally feel vibrant,
my words finally nurture
the walking astrology thou are.

SWEETHEART,

FOR SOME,
LOVE IS THE CURE.

AND

FOR SOME,
LOVE IS THE DISEASE.

My loss, and my gain
are one in the same.

this fear, this hurt, it over powers me, it devours me, baby.
tell me that it's all not just a waste, that i'm the only one who
holds your heart, that i can't be replaced.

tonight i'll get high, & fly out into outerspace,
trying to erase all of your mistakes.

i'm breaking down again, & where are you?
i can't trust a single word you say,
are you falling for someone new?
& what will take this pain away?

i sew my mouth shut, troubled by all of these unspoken
words, all of these questions without anwsers, eating me
alive like cancer. just be honest & real, is it really that hard
of a task?, because i'm so toarn by all of these questions,
that i shouldn't feel the need to ask.

just tell me that you're the anwser.

that gleam in your eyes, makes me terrified,
what lyes beneath them?, & how much do you hide?
oh how i love those eyes, but have they left mine blind?
because of all of these anwsers that i can't find, to the
questions that take away my piece of mind?

it is her, who makes me an insecure monster,
should i just give up & let go? because i'm so
restless & unsure, it's torture, so if it's too laight,
please just let me know.

My sister is a fantastic writer.
She started writing as a way to cope.
She misses our grandmother's house,
for quite some time that was all she could write about.
She wrote about the looming, gentle, green pines that swayed over the small pond and the way you could gaze at the water and see not only the pines but also sky, just as blue and white and occasionally yellow and orange and you could could see it just as clearly whether you looked down or up.

Now, she writes about God,
or god, (although I don't think she believes in a 'the God')
she writes about the cold mist from the bay that warms up by midday but there are no pine trees.


My grandma became sick.
She became very sick of mind,
although her heart has never failed,
her memory failed her and anxiety overcame her.
She couldn't live out on the ridge anymore.
She couldn't take care of those twelve acres and the horse and the donkey and the dogs and the very small cat named Po that only came down from the attic very rarely and only to eat. She couldn't take care of these things and herself and my mother and she couldn't have laid a bigger hand into molding my sister and me. Through many an ear yank and many a promise of the wooden spatula (a never kept) she forced and graced upon us respect; for the land and living beings like, love, for the land and living beings alike, and a humbleness before the beauty of the land and living things alike.


My grandmother now lives in a gated community. Her condition has stabilized through trial and error using psychoactive drugs. Her understanding is lower and her anxiety is much higher than when she lived on the ridge but the doctors don't want to make things worse with experimentation and my grandmother doesn't want to either.


My sister's words always bleed of the page and I can see the pond and the trees and our tan bodies and the dry red dirt, and I'm thankful she has this affinity. I'm glad she can play scenes from our childhood out as if from a movie.