She was laving her insides with gin the night I met her.
She told me she had bullets embedded in her skin which sounded insane, but I still swore I could see them.

That night she only effused about ***
and gin
and her eyes were blue
and I wanted to drown,
to dwell in the sea beneath her eyelids.

She was untruthful.
She said she would be candid with my foreign face,
but all of my words drew tears from the sea I loved to laud.

We were very tired.
I swear she must have cleaned her wounds with ***** a thousand times that night before I could tend to them myself.
I know she was very tired.

Her eyes still blue, still stormy, made my throat close up.
I wanted to be more copious with my words.
To tell her that I wanted to be her gin
her ****
her everything in between,
but I couldn’t,
for she was the beauty I couldn’t grasp with my words but with my heart,
a heart that wouldn’t rightly align with hers.

I keep falling in love
with
your
eyes baby
and I can’t stand to see them full of tears. Baby your eyes,
fill my shot glass with your tears,
Ill get drunk.
Not tipsy drunk.
Drunk.
The type of drunk that makes white people want to bring back the black people they’ve killed.
Black out drunk.
The type of drunk that makes my mom accept that I’m in love with you.
Baby, baby girl,
the drunk that makes me write about you.
The poet kinda drunk.
The gay kinda drunk.
The in love kinda drunk.
Baby.
Baby girl.
Your eyes,
they’re full of tears
but I'm a little too drunk to know why.

When its time to say goodbye
hold your breath and count
from
1 to 10
because I don’t believe in goodbyes
but when I see that time cant cooperate
I know I have to face my fears
and kiss the surface of your body
until my lips become a part of your skin.

The last time we spoke she said that caterpillars crawl all over her skin.
I found that to be strange.
She was 9 years old.
Brown curly hair, green eyes, short attention span.
When she called for me I would sing because her voice was a melody.
When she cried her tears wrote symphonies.
When she died I could see her name in the clouds.
The last time we spoke, a few days after,
butterflies crawled all over my skin

I always joke around about how I am illegal.
People laugh, give me nervous looks, then ask for clarification.
“Wait are you serious?” they would ask as if not being american is lethal.

I always joke around about how I am illegal

I’m not, but once I say that people look at me lesser than equal.
They forget that more than one race is allowed in this nation.

I always joke around about how I am illegal.
People laugh, give me nervous looks, then ask for clarification.

how beautiful
it is to be alone,
on my own,
for i am
complete, wonderful
and without a need
to be loved
by anyone else
because this Light
remains real
especially without you
and your attention;
this is not bitterness,
old friend, it is grattitude
for leaving
and letting go
has been more than
I would have ever planned,
so, let the winds blow you
away, away, away
and the rains
drop, drop, drop
that will lead you
far from me
from us
from those you left
left behind