The air clings to my skin, as if I could reach up
and wring it out like a wet towel.

The steady drone of mosquitos, flashes of flitting bodies in my periphery
remind me of my negligence,
Because I can't really blame them
for being attracted to standing water.

They're only trying to reproduce, to give their offspring a chance at experiencing the world.
A place where their eggs won't be washed away downstream
We regard them as vermin, but really, we all burn down to the same things.
A gnawing hunger for survival, a bit of charred carbon.
Maybe stardust, if you believe in that.
A condensation of refracted nebulae.

After all, the infestation is your own fault.
When your water has nowhere to drain, can you fault it for stagnating?
When a mother's wings tire, can you fault her for coming to rest?
Why let the water still if you don't welcome mosquitos?

I almost toe the line of sympathy before snuffing it out with one swift motion,
Ending the thought in a spatter of old blood,
A torn wing smeared across the back of my calf.

this is a poem of who i am
the big picture stellar grand scheme of things

cobwebs cling to abandoned ideas
the constant unending stream of things

incessant foot-tapping, under-eye bags
stress tearing frayed holes in the seam of things

pinched fat between fingers, bared teeth of the scale
the lowered self-esteem of things

growing up being told that one day i'd be great
the glaring spotlight beam of things

a starry-eyed girl with a life to live:
when i close my eyes i dream of things.

lets pour one out for the kids
who never quite grew into the
“mature for your age”’s and
“pleasure to have in class”’s,

glowing futures hanging from
bony frames like a shirt
a few sizes too big

the kids with molten
gold praise spilling from their skin,
beautiful and
searingly painful,
how icarus must have felt when
the wax ran in rivulets down his back
and the sea opened up to swallow him whole.

the world isn’t so kind to these cookie dough kids
whose edges dont quite fill
out the cutters designed for them
who have no one to blame but themselves
and no one to turn to either.

where do you go when you’re suffocated by
the shadow of places you could’ve gone?

i held you like a rope with no slack,
searing my palms as you pulled away and i held on tight

and when i finally let go
i wondered why the love hurt more than the leave

“it is often,” he said, “that the poets speak of war-soaked glory and the sickening scent of blood and metal, that the only stories worth being told are ones of immense courage and the crimson victory of causing the death of another. seldom do you hear magnificent tales of the gardener, hands callused from wielding not a sword but the handle of a shovel, exhausted from the humble act of creating life rather than taking it. and that, i think, is a great shame.”

i poured my love into his heart
it overflowed
spilling out onto the floor
wasted

his was full of love from another
leaving mine empty

sometimes you fall and it’s exhilarating and new and it feels like you’re falling out of a plane

but sometimes you fall and it’s safe and familiar and it feels like you’re falling into place