what can I do with a sleepy heart,

what can i do when it is sprained and strained,

a heart that makes me feel crippled and dazed.
I can’t react to his words,
his lips,
his smile does not warrant mine. Sinatra plays in my head
and breaks up the black hole in my chest, grinding it away,

"good bye, good good good bye"

it’s just one of those nights

fireworks sprinkled over 8:57 PM, sounding

as if the sky was a glass and the shots that rang

out were giant ice cubes falling into it, like

ice cubes the size of my head. I don’t know what

blind people dream about, but it might be of feelings instead,

the thunderous rush of a honey whiskey handshake

to your mouth. a kissing-so-much your stomach turns

to make things other than butterflies for once.

the feeling of a hot spliff between your fingertips, inhale in.

say hey, and motion to the door,

where the cupid’s playing matchmaker and the men in red cars

whistle at girls in black skirts. Where you wish you could join in

so badly it hurts, but you

are you and you’ll never belong in that room.

what do we
do, when
apathy
lures us into its arm-caves.
we push back,
we continue to do the
things we should do,
we tell apathy that its arms
are too cold and carry
on.

for the next twelve months, i will become an open flame. i will spread my body, i will raise my voice, become a wildfire,
from the inside out.
i promise this to myself,
each tear that swims and spills is never again a sign of weakness
but an expression of my heart, that my mask has burned away to show my new skin, my scar skin, my healing.