once, my mum and dad told me to stop writing
writing is not something to stop, or cause to be discontinued, it still happens, whether or not the hands are working
apologies for rebellion are futile, since words and meaning circle me, leaving no reason to preserve the lack

it only stops when you're dead
and then, it speeds up

-c.j.

he sings dashboard confessional to me,
strumming his guitar and looking at me with those knowing eyes
yet they still ****, they still have much to see about me
I always wear blue

-c.j.

that summer I set fire to the books I had read before
I felt hungry and filled my body with meat and sugar and anything else good
that summer I slipped my old journals into a box, which now collects dust
I make my own memories now, they do not make me

that summer the hunger showed me so many things, I could not begin to explain them
I ate and slept and walked and read new books, and saw new people
that summer I met my love
I make my own travels now, and they complete me

-c.j.

when one boy kisses you and forgets your name the next day,
you can be sad that day
you can
but the next day, you find that other boy, the boy who looks at you like you are magick
and learn that you are not a library book to be checked out and shoved under the bed
he will love you, remember your name, he will be there the next day and the day after that and after that and after that

-c.j.

he refuses to pretend-
that stops me hard in my summer sidewalk tracks
his voice creates mountains in my chest
mountains my breath doesn't mind climbing

I refuse to question the sunrise anymore
a simple talk quickens the revelation
I can make dreams bring more mountains

because he refuses to pretend
I stopped, too

-c.j.

I believe there is nothing more stagnant than the devil's work
I believe there is nothing prettier than brushing him off
be still, still my soul
do not move even if time tells you to

-c.j.

Pacified, left on a street corner,
with December stillness in her eyes
Her mouth could not begin to contain
a mere cliché, its distaste for foolish
reminders of current surrounding speech
was strong as infrared,
though she'd say, "the other will speak in statistics
while all that spills from my mouth
are fallacious metaphors"

But he'd reply, "you intrigue me so,
with your blotted out sentences for scars,
and pretty oceans for eyes"
Looking for fragile lips to hold,
midnight and midday

-c.j.