I thought it was love—
but it wasn't.
It was poison, seeping into my veins,
an unwretched warning echoing in my soul.

A red flag draped in green,
but I was colorblind,
never saw the signs,
never heard the silent screams.

It lingered, whispered, wrapped around me,
a pill too bitter to swallow.

There was a gun,
hidden atop my father’s cabinet.
I craved pain—but just enough,
a wound to prove the suffering was real.

Because pain is valid.
Because pain is vain.

Your mere existence,
brought calm to the chaos,
and was enough to still my world.

But I failed to see,
the cracks in your sky,
from the weight of your silent ache.

I asked for peace,
not knowing I sought it,
from a gentle heart already drowning.

Sacrifice with shouts of joy

There's not
Really
much
that I need.
Sure,
There's
PLENTY
I want
BUT
Need…
I need love.
.
.
.
I want love.
But isn't love
The very act of sacrifice?

Near and far and here and everywhere,
The whispers of the wind, they fill the air.
In the quiet of the night, under the star's gentle glare,
Dreams are woven, spun with tender care.

From mountaintops so high, reaching for the sky,
To the deepest oceans, where mysteries lie.
In the heart of the forest, where nature's beauty is bared,
Wonders never cease, near and far and here and everywhere.

In the eyes of a child, wonder pure and bright,
In the wisdom of the old, a guiding light.
Through the trials and tribulations, the journey we share,
Life's tapestry is woven, near and far and here and everywhere.

Through the seasons' changes, as time marches on,
From the dawn of the day to the setting sun's song.
In every smile, every tear, every silent prayer,
Love's essence lingers, near and far and here and everywhere.

In the heart's deepest corners, where dreams reside,
In the connections we cherish, the bonds we cannot hide.
With every step we take, with every breath of air,
We find our place in the universe, near and far and here and everywhere.

night bleeds indigo and gray, and
a california chill seeps deep into bone.
white hot spotlights melt through my joints
as I watch you through half-closed eyes,
ignoring the ache that creeps into
the chambers of my heart.

among strangers, only your face remains clear
while my vision dims like dying lightbulbs.
for a moment i forget my lines;
but i am not an actor.
then we share this golden-lit bus, you & i,
skin sticky with sweat & iced tea.

five steps between us feel like miles.
knees bump over gravel...
bump, bump, bump...
through cuts of moonlight and lonely cigarette trails,
i wish you'd turn my way.

and my tired eyes will wander the aisle
while the voices between us fade like old leather seats.
footsteps mark time passing
on this midnight bus ride.

shadows will dance under streetlights,
and the words i want to say catch in my throat
like dewdrops at the sound of your laugh.
spring feels distant now,
and still i'd wait for you.

brushing arms leave trails of fire,
hands running through tangled thoughts.
my body resides between Newport's shore and sea.
i remember a friend's words:

"what else can you do but admire from afar?"

days later;
missing the midnight bus ride back home.

they’re everywhere,
in the cupboards of the kitchen and
underneath the dining table,
in our voices when we speak.

the exchanges between my mother and i are always
lasers, ****** care, whatnot, money —
leaving our words on the stairs
like bricks in hopes the other might trip over them
& asserting ourselves like a flash of lighting first
before the thunder.

i drive a hard bargain with my mother
I wish I didn’t know about
because she tells me as a daughter I
must not get involved with the boys of this world
I am easily more expensive
to nourish, to dress, to please —

that it is all because
”we are silent but angry women in my household”;
and this is true, i know
my sister likes to leave a disaster using her door
when she slams it shut to let everyone know yes,
she’ll do the dishes but maybe not tonight.

my mother likes to poke fun like needles —
her teasing turned daggers when she half complains,
half laughs at the sorry state of our stormy household
until I breakout into pimples. then she bursts into a gust,
disappearing until she can prowl again.

and then my father, who does not speak to me but
so passionate with the wilderness of his youth
left behind under the monsoons back home, his feet stomp
on carpeted stairs when he is full of my mother’s words,
ready to charge like a water buffalo in the rice fields spooked by a snake
and I can’t help but wonder how our home is still drifting,
barely intact on this boundless sea
and i can no longer see the horizon ahead of us

because i, on the other hand so full yet so empty about myself
all the time, keep to myself like a stray cloud -
so I carry his fire, first candle of his flame, like all the ones before me.
see that my heart is laden with a churning thunder, though I have no right to be;
perhaps it is the love offered in our unloving words
that are exchanged like gifts at our family gatherings, building

quiet storms.
they are everything that i am
that i will do,
that i will become.

home is a cage
slide out the window
find a different way
run with the wolves
chase the child

it won't always be like this
ceramic heart
cosmic bruise
lovesick in a hotel wildfire

chemistry begins with
orbiting the moon
he calls her a river

swallowing down mistakes
she cares a little less about everything now

blood on the mattress
young blood

breaks in the sun
mean pure dark is yet to come
--nightly things

as long as she gets by
despite the crushing weight of gravity
she will take swan feathers
and wedding days to bed

but never take the blame