Having a hard time in spring makes me think it is my least favorite season. My paleness frostbitten from eager pedal pushers and my hairs luster lacks gone away with the beanie I lived in. My face loves the sun, but it was too much too soon and the burn remains. Oh and death is spring because babies can’t care for themselves yet. The first buds of bland blooms, backdrop for later’s begonia. It is not exciting to see this life struggle out of sleep when the season of sadness spills over. Spring, she’s bipolar a bit. The warmth is hit or miss and she takes so long to get out of bed. Get out of the fog, get of out of the grey. She takes the moments you hold your breath the longest before plunging out of the horizon and runs her finger along the film as to slow it down because when you’re sad in Spring you feel as though winter is forever.

the parallels in who I was
and who I am today
sometimes become too close
when I lose my footing
after speaking up
the parts of my mind
meant to stay in folds
it must remain math
the parallels are destined
to a line of steady observation
the dominant stretch seeming larger
but it measures the same

I awoke with sweat
beading down every inch
of my body
my decolletage a lake
of processed loss
my grey shirt
cast limp and damp
in melting mountain peaks
I wrung it back where I felt
it belonged in the lake
further sinking my heart
to the bottom of this
fresh water body
a lost treasure
only I knew of

I’m so unhappy when I consume
more than I produce
do I delete everything in lieu
of creating or let everything
coexist and mind my own
**** business
none of my business
my thoughts have become

Wait for him

Not to change

No not he

Wait for him

Who doesn’t wait

For your fantasy

The one who

Changes what your

Dreams are made of

The classical on the stereo

10 disc cd in the trunk, maybe

Is so lovely, the piano keys

Spell disaster

As we round the curve

Of the highways entry

And Chang, 2100 trips

Is so close to the steering wheel

One slip up and his Burberry

But not Burberry

Drivers cap would fly off

In slow motion in front of me

And his face to the wheel

Because his wrists bend back

When he turns

Reminds me of Grandma Bea

When she slipped

In our sunken living room

Her wig rolled off

And had she been nice to mom

I might not have smirked

you're not here for the pleasure

off navigating leather and steel

I still feel your weight

your hand on a pen now,

not my chin or nape of neck

I'm selfish for missing you

knowing you'll return to me

but I still feel your weight

so I peak and peak again

knowing you're not done piquing yet