i can’t remember how many times i’ve been told
that the language of love is all i speak.
i laugh and say that
“i am a poet,
young love and
dead love and
to-the-grave love,
i sing of them as i sleep
and dream of them once i wake.”

we as poets surely know that
no amount of unsent letters
will bring her back to bed.
we know that we cannot charm our ways
into the hearts of anyone worthwhile
with our words alone.
and we know that cigarettes aren’t cute and
that pregnant women never drink alone
and that tripping on acid is not poetic,
it’s just really freaking stupid.

let me know why no one writes poetry
to commend the humble playground swing
who hardly even creaks in dissent as
another parent plops another screaming baby onto it.
and it pains this poor swing that
Daddy gets to be so blissfully unaware
of the very full and angry diaper,
and that they are the one to stare it in the face
because that’s just what swings do.
we could spin this tale into a revolution
if we cared a little less about our next first kiss.

when the pen meets the paper,
we find it easy to forget about
the girl gazing deep into her soup
because instead of boy-watching,
she is wishing death on her mother
for adding the lentils but forgetting the peas.

the great poets of ages past and present
make every bathroom trip a journey.
panicked sprints to catch the bus
are part of God’s plan, no doubt.
and she only hated the sweater you bought her
to celebrate her summer birthday because
“it was the very same shade of gray
that painted the sky when her boyfriend
traded her in for a broad with thicker thighs
or maybe even for a guy with socks twice as high”.

dear poets, for the love of love,
please don’t drown in her eyes anymore
because i won’t be there to rescue you again.
quit searching her freckles
for constellations in the dark
and just relax for once.
enjoy how naked she is.
and don’t say that the moon
is your old friend from high school
unless the yearbook photos can prove it.

these mountains in our minds
have every right to be molehills,
and sometimes it’s okay to
let the ocean just be the ocean.

I have a friend who collects butterflies.
She saves the beauty left behind
once their bodies are dead and
their spirits have fled.
And I wish I could explain to you,
that in this very same way,
your walls of glass may cage my heart,
but my soul stills wanders this land
in search of a love that does not ****.

I do not fear your high tides.
I see no more light in your ocean eyes.
You used to be my wild heart.
But now, you are only nature to me,
a bit of beauty observed from afar
as I hold someone else’s hand
and watch you swallow up the sun.

It seems you have a taste for radiance,
something you covet, but do not own.
You saw this in me,
but I will be ******
before I ever again
let you come in
close enough
to drag me under.

The whispers get caught between your bodies;
they scratch across your matchstick skin
and fill the room with lovers’ fire.

Wearing Converse ‘cause we’re All Stars,
leaping rails and busting through the knees of last year’s jeans,

Not sleeping, just dreaming for when it can all start over again.

But without the old, the exes and the oh’s,
how can we say we really knew the new?

Once upon a time, I was all about the pretty boys.

the kinds that walked me through my dreams, 
the kinds that plucked me from my wreckage like the springtime roses they'd leave on my doorstep. 


and they kissed me so kindly that falling in love was no longer sacred, and the smolder of victory in their eyes soon outshone our lovely moon.



but I would wake each morning with names on my lips that evaporated in the daylight, 

and just before I'd go, I'd confess to my bedroom ceiling that i still wanted someone more.

And then, by some miracle mapped out in stars, I followed a path that led to you.



And oh God, music hasn't sounded as sweet since the moment I heard your voice. 

Your laughter chases every nervous beat of my heart, your eyes hold constellations that make it easy enough to feel infinite as long as my gaze stays locked with yours. 



You make me feel fluorescent, the darkness has never felt so safe. With the memory of you in my near-present, there's no danger I cannot face. 

And I long so stupidly to fold and unfold myself in the spaces between your fingers.

 To taste the gold on your lips would make me the richest in spirit that I have ever been. 



And I can't deny, it would be heaven to stroke my hands through your hair and whisper while you're close, "oh darling, don't you know, 
you were art long before i began to admire you,"



This ecstasy you give has touched me deep within my bones. 

And I'm shocked you haven't heard this one before, it's a tale as old as time.

You linger like the softest whisper in the furthest corners of my mind.