Lately my words have felt
like bullets that only
graze the edge of the target.
A feeling of emptiness saturates
my mouth as I speak.

Lately I feel like
the validity of my presence
is tied to some word count.
Like my existence
is an essay that I must write,
I just cannot find the right words.

there are some,
just a few,
experiences i have had
where i have felt
the touch of love
as the universe cradled me
for just a moment.
a moment
that was all i needed,
in that moment,
to keep faith
in myself and
in this life.

Usually i stand right at the edge.
Where im still considered within the bounds of connection,
But not too far in that i cant easily step right out.
Because to go deeper means that i must walk toward the fog
And out of sight of the edge.
To get vulnerable and to get lost in something that i can’t control.
The edge is comfortable.
It’s a line on which i can see clearly where i stand
Without getting lost in the existence of someone else.

i’ve always been the third wheel,
the pity friend,
the background character.
i’ve always been another body-
just to make the group an even number,
another voice-
just to make the laughter slightly louder,
another wallet-
just to make the split cost a little cheaper.

i am grieving and i am grateful.
i am scared to jump and i am hopeful i will land.
i am comfortable doing life alone with only myself and i dream of spending my life with the one whom i love.
every color exists
in equivocal harmony
within the rainbow
of the heart.

size zero jeans
flesh colored seams
plastic containers labeled Maybelline.
if beauty is what’s seen,
and so will i be,
a prisoner, shackled
to the glamour economy.

it’s the elephant in the room,
it’s the wound that never bleeds,
it’s the joke that always lands
but only after she leaves.
it’s the exposed nerve ending,
it’s the unwarranted broadcast,
it’s my insecurity living
inside a house made of glass.