I keep asking the stars—
why give me a heart
so fluent in love,
yet no one who understands the language?

I pour oceans into people
who don’t even bring a cup,
craving a reflection
that’s always walking away.

The universe made me
desperate,
tender,
wide open—
then placed me in a world
of half-hearts and dead ends.

I dream of being chosen
the way I choose,
seen the way I stare
into souls
like it’s scripture.

But I’m stuck—
in limerence,
in longing,
in the kind of hope
that keeps whispering
“maybe next time”
until eternity fades
and I’m still waiting
for love
that mirrors mine.

Oh, Lily
How beautifully you lie there,
In the curly waves of the river
Golden beams gently touch your skin
As a way to wake the sleeping saint

A trumpet of petals calls me from afar;
It is the only thing that I hear
Blaring in a quiet hearth
Where a name without vowels is engraved
I wander, unaware of its gentle retreat.

I watch it dance
Six needles holding the stamen
Like a surfboard grasping for its life
One more whirl of the winds,
Then it would fall on the carpel's feet.

I sojourned in this garden once;
You might never see me or I might never see you
Let Zeus lurk for Hera's liquid at last
'Till it splashes, stained, and bloom
In every season of my mind.

Consumed by your beg,
of being held close,
my arms out and open,
I promise you the most.
You pray for the love,
from bodies you see,
I’m hiding in shadows,
please come to me.

I drown in limerence,
and plead for your heart,
a fragmented augment,
we feel so apart.
The sun glistens down,
on your sunflower skin,
I fell for your soul,
and intelligence within.

I hear your desperation,
the longing you hold,
i sit and observe,
the warmth you behold.
Behind glass-stained windows,
and cinnamon-filled scents,
I distance myself from you,
with the best of intents.

Men. Boys. Small obsessions.
I want to be free of them.
Of me?

I get too drunk too quickly. Too excited.
A sloppy kiss in a badly lit kitchen can unlock something deep inside me.

A flicker of waking desire.
Nothing tastes better than a secret.

Nothing better than the soft touch of the lips you are supposed to stay away from.
I trace my fingers over the questions he smeared all over me.

Always cold and restless. How can I stop it?
Do I want it to stop when I’m this young and problematic?
  
Hungry for emotion, I want to get drunk off others' lips.
I want to wander in the drunken haze cloaked in the smoke of gossip.

A word from him. Hell of a digital rollercoaster.

I am easily hooked, always happy to surrender. Does he want me enough to keep me stable for a few weeks?

Do I love him? Do I hate him?
I only need him.

Is this inspiration or pure desperation?
Should I be grateful or furious?
For now, I am both.
  
Is this the burden of inadequacy that comes with being a poet?
Are we the most shallow of all?

What if this tumultuous destruction of my fevered ***** mind proves itself completely pointless?

I am made out of buzzing question marks.
  
My heart is on the verge of exploding.
My stomach is corroded with terror.
I can only handle this much.

I can’t do this anymore.

This is the best thing that has ever happened to me.