You aren’t the first to come and sit beside me
On this couch.
Others have come before you
And have left their imprint.

I do hope that you’re the last to walk in
And stay.
The way you smile
and lean back against the cushion,
You stare at me and smile as if asking, what?

The past imprints are meaningful.
Some are deeper than the last that sat
Where you’re sitting now.
I’ve learned a lot from them.
Sometimes their ghosts still
Walk in and smile.
Before stepping back out.

It’s funny how well I thought I knew myself,
Until I realized I didn’t.
But without them,
I wouldn’t have learned more about myself.
About what I needed to change,
What I needed to let go,
How to hold you
without readying myself to say goodbye afterwards.

When you first walked in,
You reminded me of them.
The ghosts that walked in
and kept me company for a minute.
To be honest, I counted the minutes until you said goodbye.
I don’t count anymore.
I’ve gotten used to sitting here
on the couch with you.

मन भरून आले तुला पाहून,
आठवण येत होती तुझी.
तुला सांगायचं गेले राहून
मनातली गोड भावना माझी.

सुंदर दिसत होतीस तू,
नेहेमीसारखीच हसत होतीस,
पण तुझ्या हसण्याचा आनंद तू
मला मिळून देत नव्हतीस.

खूप समजावलं मी मनाला माझ्या –
नको तिची आठवण काढूस,
आठवणींच्या पेटाऱ्याला तुझ्या
पाहून नको अश्रू गाळूस.

पण तरीही, कधीतरी दार वाजल्यावर
तू भेटायला आलीयस असं वाटतं,
दारात कोणी तरी दुसराच दिसल्यावर
मन पुन्हा एकदा तुटतं.

I’m in a Target parking lot
wearing his sweatshirt
and a sash that says
'Poet Laureate of American Mistakes'
because I won it in a landslide
against every girl
who’s ever texted
“you up?”
knowing **** well he is,
but not for her.

I didn’t cry today,
but I did stare at a peach
for ten minutes thinking
about death,
and foreplay,
and if any of this even counts as research.

I think about texting him
just to say
I’m sorry I made you a metaphor.
But the truth is
I’m not.
He was the only thing
that ever meant something
after I wrote it down.

I came here for toothpaste
and left with a bikini top
I’m too emotionally haunted to wear,
and a notebook I won’t open-
because if I do,
I’ll make art again,
and I’m trying to quit,
but I never really try that hard.
I don’t even know if I want to get better.
I just want someone to notice.

A man honks behind me
because I’m not moving.
Because I parked
but forgot to arrive.
Because I’m not really here,
I’m three texts back
and one year late.
You don’t know it’s the last time
until your hands feel stupid.

I wave like I’m sorry
but I’m not.
I’m just poetic.
Which is worse.

This parking lot’s a stage.
I’ve died here six different ways.
Once in June.
Twice in sweatpants.
The fourth time I thought it was over,
but the music kept playing.

I wear the sash like I’m in on the joke,
because it takes a hint of genius
to be this stupid,
because when I said
“I’m okay,”
no one fact-checked me,
and when I said
“I didn’t learn anything,”
they gave me
a crown.

I take the sash off
before starting the car.
Fold it like evidence.
Leave it in the front seat
like I’m done with the bit.
But I’m not.
I just need a break
from being clever.

I should’ve bought the peach.
Let it rot on the dashboard,
at least then
something would’ve gone soft
without making it my fault.

The sweatshirt still smells like
whatever I was hoping he’d stay for,
(mainly, me.)
And the notebook?
Still closed.
Which is hilarious, really.
Because you’re reading it.

(This poem is a lie.
I opened the notebook
before I even left the store.)

Being an empath
is both a blessing
and a curse

First place
gold medal shine
this moment is mine
smiling ear to ear
but then I see her,
Second place,
quickly wipes her face
her parents think
she’s a disgrace
Did I destroy her dream?
We’re always the villain
in someone’s scene.

Sometimes I hate to feel
every dream
I steal

I get my emotional exercise jumping to conclusions
Working out, to weaken my delusions
My warmup starts with bad morning news
This day is going south, before I get my running shoes
My cardio is done when I get really mad
I have a cool down period, after I get sad
My endurance comes from running down my dreams
Jogging in the marathons, powered by my screams
My strength training routine is carrying my heavy load
I get my reps from hauling it, up and down the road
My form is rather rough these days, my core has gotten weak
I work on my reaction time, only when I have to speak
Getting stretched, I’m too thin from dodging all the lies
Repetition comes from all those tries
Hydration comes from crying all these tears
I’ve been working out by myself for many years
My well-being is based on my emotional exercise
I like to start the day early, just about sunrise
I exercise in my mind, workout hard most everyday
I sit and think, then I write what I’m going to say
Now I’ve had my workout, it’s time for me to rest
I know tomorrow’s routine will keep me at my best

I feel time running like a wild animal tnrough my body
the air might hide from itself in the frenzy of an embrace
the molecules of emotion create the music of muscles, of spheres
I watch this momentum of life unfolding, rising and decreasing
passion feeds the wind, the waters, the eartquakes, it dances on liminal edges
bound and unbound the pulse of creation, of destruction
I am so very quiet, as quiet as the retina that translates the light
when the light touches you my optic nerves get burned but look
how strange,
I see further away into the clarity of hands

The wild fury hidden below
Emanating a wicked black flames glow
But this wraith was bestowed
When the fog lifted in the meadows

This demon had finally hit the light
After hiding so long in the dead of night
Like heat, The truth started to arise
From amoung the murky waters of deceitful lies

The fire only seemed to have grown
And its presence soon became known
The apathetic rage had consumed the mask
In which this unearthly flame was latched

The wicked, evil flame
Wouldn't, or couldn't be tamed
Not even the black hole of he abyss
Could hold a hate like this

This ferocious, deprived monster turned a field of emotion
Into a empty, bottomless ocean
Worst of all no one saw the posined knife
That is plaguing such a once joyful life

Fallen cherry blooms,
Sticks to my wet skin like grief,
Brief and hard to hold.

The roses never asked,
Why you didn’t return home.
It just bloomed and died.