Two day ago in therapy I wrote you a love poem:
A physics equation quantifying the emotional clarity that is brought by your proximity,
With love as a fundamental constant and a scalar summation of circumstances' mental momentum.

The next evening,
You told me you were going to sleep with a friend,
But the thought of sharing you makes me viscerally sick,
But worse is the ache, the knowledge
That you crave their touch too.

It's a slither underneath my ribs,
Tensing pressure that constricts my lungs and crushes the bone,
Venom through my veins,
Stopping at my heart.

But,
Love is constant,
Love is kind.
And, god, I've fallen in love with a selfish serpent.

do you think im pretty?

i know i
            have candle stubs
                        for irises
            and wrought iron door hinges
                        for a jaw
where other girls have
            mirrored ponds and
            flower stems

but i scrape the hardened wax off of my stony cheeks
            every morning
and sand down the splinters
                        on my wooden fingertips

it's all i can do because
            the moonlight i carry
                        turns to steam
            and the knots i tied in these flower stems
                        dont withstand the weight

do you think im pretty?
i promise my
            rigid joints can still bend to hold your waist and
            caress your midnight waves
            we can
                        stay here
                                    close
                  ­                              together
                          ­          and
                        breathe the same air
            dont worry about the

scorch marks on my neck or
splinters in my chest
darling they come from inside-
            right
                        here ...
            if you stay close
            i'll keep you
                        so
            warm–

and theres no need to worry
(because
            im
the only
one
close
            enough

to burn)

In a large mixing bowl, add:
- 1 ½ cups all-purpose existential anxiety
- 1 ¾ teaspoons philosophical meanderings
- ½ teaspoon purple fatigue from the under-eye
and beat
and beat
and beat
for an hour or two or
until the mixture becomes a pale periwinkle.
​
In a separate bowl, cream together
- 1 cup sticky nostalgia
- 2 cups creamy moonlight, chilled
then crack 2 large wet pupils, at max capacity,
and mix, watching the salty yolks
dissolve sugary memories,
until time travel
begins to make you sick.
​
Then, stir in ½ cup sweat
from folded creases and crannies,
pour the batter carefully into a greased pan,
and bake underneath hot cotton bedsheets.

While waiting,
pluck 6 of the brightest stars out of the black sky,
pound into flat sheets, then
collect 6 pearls of hardened regret
and wrap each in a star.
​
When the cake turns a greenish-grey,
uncover and
top with star pastries
and pink marshmallows
from the early sunrise.

your memory isn't quite so loud anymore–
you've dwindled
into a two-dimensional
grayscale outline

you don't have much color left
            to bleed into my fingertips
            when I try to remember
that used to leave me
            blissfully intoxicated and
            helplessly madly addicted
no it's

faded and everything's
quite tame now

now I suppose I'm
just
missing you quietly

waiting
            as you still bubble
            on the back burner–
the steam has begun to dissipate and I've
            started to survey the mess I made while
            hopelessly blind

now I guess I'm
just
missing you quietly

feeling the heat of your palms
            evaporate and
waiting

waiting for my skin to remember
            how to fend for itself against the cold
                        – I wish you knew how much it still stings –
hearing the last remnants of your voice in soft broken echoes–
            consonants whispered into the breeze
wondering

as I watch you
fade

if I will
            ever
draw in color
again?

there were golden forests
and skies like seas

feathered magenta sunrise
floating on silver breeze

and under rosy ecstasy
the grass sang
"all is but a dream"


there were boundless scarlet sunsets
spidery grey trees

slender green shadows
yellow sidewalks agleam

and as spindly limbs swung quietly
the grass sang
"all is but a dream"


there were blood orange moons
seeping like molasses through
blackened open wounds

sandy-grey clouds swallow the skies
their toothy gaping mouths smothering cries

and as the sun turns to ash and steam
and dusky fields burn at the seams  

the rotting grass hisses  
"all was but a dream"