Shoved in darkness,
poking the grey mist
from the edge of
your crooked
beak;—
Murmuring omens
of death 'till
the life
ends;—
But why?
Why do you wait
for the fall of fame?
From the one drowned
in the seas of shadows,
may I ask:
Is your heart made
of black-Granite
Stone?

You started to feel like a fever dream—
the chills, the sweat didn’t leave me.
I tried to revive us.

We did walk to school holding hands,
our long braids filled with
stories of our worlds.

I could not face you.
The equal footing disappeared
once the pretty boy liked you over me.
It grew into the ocean
when another boy became your world.

I tried to let go,
be graceful,
be accepting—
but the poison crept in.
The ivy grew all over me, and I let it.
This felt good and real.

Time washed us by—
days into years.
We aren’t the same anymore.

You are losing hair.
I am losing sleep.
Thanks for waving the white flag.

We can win again!

in my life,
ive called three girls my best friend.
one i haven’t seen since i was five,
one i wish i saw more,
one i wish i never saw again.

the first half my hand on a playground,
the second held my hand while i cried.
the third was the reason for my tears.

and now there’s a fourth.
i don’t love many people like a sister,
but she’s one of them.

i would tell her all my secrets,
cut myself raw so she can see the real me.
shes so honest,
the kind of friend ive only read about.

but im not the only one she’s a great friend to.
im selfish, i know.
i wish she wasn’t such a good person,
that she didn't give out kindness like it's endless
that i could have her to myself.

but i cant.
because she’s my best friend,
but i'm not hers.

I never forgave my twin brother
for abandoning me
for six minutes in our mother’s womb,
leaving me there alone,
terrified in the dark,
floating like an astronaut in that silent space,
while kisses rained down on him from the other side.

Those were the longest six minutes of my life
the minutes that made him the firstborn,
the favored one.

Ever since, I raced to be first:
out of the room,
out of the house,
to school,
to the cinema
even if it meant missing the end of the movie.

Then one day, I got distracted,
and he stepped out to the street before me.
Smiling that gentle smile,
he was struck by a car.

I remember my mother
how she rushed from the house
at the sound of the impact,
how she passed by me,
arms outstretched toward his lifeless body,
but she screamed my name.

To this day,
I’ve never corrected her mistake.

It was I who died,
and he who lived.

It’s all Choreography, you see,
How I know just what to say,
How I smile at your life,
My enthusiasm about your new boo.
Don’t worry,
Don’t worry,
Don’t worry your perfect little head,
About my loss,
About my body,
About my hair.

It’s all Choreography, you see,
I’ll probably tell you about the one good day,
Some award I won for being nice,
And spew some pseudo-intelligent *******
But I know
Oh, I know
I know all too well you’ll see through me

It’s all Choreography, you see,
I’ve been training since I was five,
It’s meticulously planned
And executed flawlessly as
Warm hugs, laughs, kind eyes and sweet, sweet words.

It’s all Choreography, I know
I’d rather do this,
Because,
I dance alone anyway!

Both sending letters,
they tore their love apart—
each line like a "don’t leave me,"
they looked like real love letters.

Reading between the lines,
you’d see who played the part.
The strange thing is, the culprit
was not of either heart.

Jealousy, the silent fire,
gave context and reasons,
possessing their prey,
it moved without control.

Can love be found again,
by one who shared the blame?
Can a fractured soul find wholeness
through forgiveness, love, and name?

Your sorrowed letters shake me,
each farewell cuts me through.
Some of us never get letters—
not of friendship, nor of loss,
much less of love from you.

Los dos enviando cartas
rompían su relación,
parecían un no me dejes
reales cartas de amor.

Mirando entre palabras
verías al culpable,
lo extraño del culpable
ninguno de ese amor.

Los celos crean
contexto y razón,
poseyendo a sus víctimas
accionan planes sin control.

¿Será posible volver al amor
siendo un coautor de tal error?
¿un espíritu quebrado unirá sus trozos
con palabras de amor y perdón?

Conmociona mi espíritu
tus tristes cartas de adiós,
algunos no recibimos cartas
ni por quiebre, ni amistad,
menos siquiera por amor.