she weaves through crowds with little effort. she will occupy everything there is to be stayed in; your body, your mind, your heart; she will take any space she can get. do not think you can hold on to her. she will always slip through your fingers.

she walks like she is dancing, like she is floating. she is both in your lungs and on your lips; sometimes, it will feel like she is not in either. you will tread this thin line between love and necessity. do not call her your everything. once she leaves, you will be left for dead.

she speaks with a fever that reminds you of your own. she is the girl your mother warned you not to get too close to, but there is something enticing about the way she can warm you up from the inside. don't be stupid. a flame is always a flame, and flames burn.

she has been abused for far too long and yet she remains firm, and constant. she will remind you of the flowers in your soul and the callouses on your hands, tell you that they are equally beautiful. don't be fooled. her heart is heavy, and you must be atlas to carry it.

i don't believe in ghosts (or rather, i don't want to)

but there's no other name for my first love who still haunts me, the reason why there are still times that love feels like bile in my throat;

and there's no other name for the nightmares i wake up from in the middle of the night, this echo of what i was never able to do for others;

and there's no other name for the girl i killed years ago; this version of me i murdered, this version of me who was potentially much better;  

i don't believe in ghosts,

but i have a few and i've named them so that they can keep me company when no one else can,

(my favorite ghost, her name is regret; she's often seen with what if and could have been)

and i have stories to tell, not at camp fires, no, but maybe over the phone when it's three a.m in the morning and i've had one too many to drink,

(let me tell you about how he left me; let me tell you about how many times i watched my friends die in my sleep; let me tell you about the person i was before i decided i can't be her any longer)

and i can't get rid of them, no matter how hard i try.

(i throw salt and offer prayers but it doesn't seem to be effective)

everyone has ghosts whether they believe in them or not; ghosts they want to get rid of, ghosts they can't get rid of, ghosts that only they see, ghosts everyone else can point out;

who's yours?

of my ex when she had my son inside her
she is fully golden and beautiful
in the way women are
carries her smile and glow
all over her
she is nature
a ripe corn stalk laden with ears
a fresh breeze blowing the seeds
from the dandelion around

absentmindedly
smoking cigarettes
drawing the smoke
so deeply into my lungs
i don't want to think
i cannot think
i

this poem
is not about you

even though
your spirit is in every word
your voice sounds strong
in the halls of my mind
telling me things
I am now sure
I want to know

this poem is
about me

trying to understand
you

There was a girl
quite beautiful
who drowned herself
drinking they say
without blinking
like an infant suffocating
while sleeping without care
out where a lifebuoy
floats like a soggy rose
marking the spot
they last heard her
singing while sinking.

at her bequest I changed my hair and interests
she liked me how I was when we first met
and not so much my differences....
I changed, I guess, as we got more comfortable
grew my hair long again and quit shaving
watched less baseball and football
and watched more movies with heroines
and love stories, forgot my best friends phone numbers
and tried to remember anniversaries and Valentine's day
and Mother's day and birthdays
and lounged more on the couch
ate popcorn with my sweaty feet  on display
belched and farted as I pleased, it is as they said
that truly, one can get
too comfortable, and too malleable,
I am gonna watch more sports,
I am getting too estrogen
infused.

the hot sweat
blood returning where
flushed cheeks
and the wet spot
lie quiet and content