I'm repeating
in my head
                              I'm sorry
because
I don't believe  
I said it enough to you.

one door closed, another opened
but even knowing that there is no way
to twist and wring positive thoughts
from a door slammed in my face

you told me why
you preferred closed doors
but even so
that hurt me more

doubt eggshells crack and hatch
branching thoughts of what this must mean
were we not friends? i thought we were
but i kept my thoughts unseen

do i regret this?
at the time i didn't want to seem desperate
if i asked again i might've found another way
but caring so much about this was pathetic

in the end, i don't know myself
muses have died and revived from the ashes
repurposed feelings like a fire-heat phoenix
they're part of me now, we've survived all the crashes

you can have your doors, closed they may be
because exterior and interior aren't important at all
different paths but we still walk the same road
i'm over it, it was nothing personal and i'm not gonna fall

afternoon hanging heavy,
caressed by a tomato soup fog,
tired carpet, fleshy velvet couch
both aching for validation.

ten photos of the same dog
speak Latin all at once

a desk in utter disarray,
fishbowl walls slimy
and coated in shame

a bookcase crammed with
stepfather books,
trying too hard, too much, too soon

giant cilia lined lungs swing from the ceiling,
******* in and out and in and out and in and
all of the oxygen and

it has already been an hour,

$150,
a check is fine,
see you next week.

It's raining outside
and while I'm laying in my bed,
texting you

that's when I've realized

I really want you
to just leap out of the phone
and come cuddle with me

because I'm lonely,
and you are oh, so lovely.

Loosing myself in the storm clouds
gray water, baptize me well
pour out your innards and drench my skin
liquid bombings from heavens above
cleanse me of my sorrows
I left my umbrella at home
It rests there along with the thought of her
gray water, baptize me well
I am sorry,
for everything

I am from piano keys
from steel strings and sticky wood.
I am from the sheet music under the stairs.
(Crumbled, torn,
it felt like old age.)
I am from the vinyl shelf,
The stack of cassettes
whose voices I remember more clearly
than my own.

I’m from van Gogh and Klimt,
from paint spills and ink stains.

I’m from sketchbook enthusiasts
and color pencil hoarders,
from More contrast! and Less lines!
I’m from stacks of canvas
with pastel faces
and a charcoal line to connect them all.

I’m from Grandpa’s radio and Grandma’s paint set,
vanilla melodies and citrus colors.
From my sister’s hands over my own
on the keys,
on the brushes with bent handles.

Between my fingertips are a
slew of eighth notes,
an abundance of contoured figures
to slip in my mind.
I am from these things—
painted and composed through—
a casualty of family art.

We were sober
You were pushing it too far
I was afraid
You haven't talked to me
I haven't talked to you
We met three days ago
We were sober
We were sober
Is that better or worse
We were sober

I’m from perfect weather
From sand between my toes and long times spent outside
I’m from streetlights calling me in for dinner
Im from the smells of ocean salt and chalk dust

I’m from black hands from the asphalt
I’m from scraped knees
I’m from the neighborhood pool
I’m from the surf city

I’m from California