I eat from a white bowl.
I don’t know where the strawberries come from.

Sometimes Mom quietly cuts them for me
at three in the morning,
when she’s getting ready for work
and I’ve stayed up all night, never explaining why.

Sometimes I eat them with Dad
at a Denny’s near the highway,
after spending the day at a gun show.
They’re fresh, getting away from the smoke and noise.

Sometimes I imagine eating strawberries
with my guardian angel
at no set hour, in no particular place,
because I believe that heaven comes
from strawberries in a white bowl.

I want to feel the day
from inside the end —
dreams, lips, god —
they are the past,
folded into light.

Memories sound so
different through
your ears,
like distant rivers
we once named hope.

The moon caressed
your cheek,
and I was once there,
a shadow caught
between breath and becoming.

Time unraveled
its silver thread,
tying our names
to the hush of stars.

We spoke in the language
of undone things,
our voices trembling
at the edge of always.

And in that stillness,
where all endings sing,
I felt the day
begin again
inside you.

I know that
they love you
So I cant help
but notice
I'm talking
to myself
again


But at least
I am trying
To make it easy
But you can't even lie
You don't try
But i'm still losin my mind over you
-------------------------------------------
you said that you're sorry
but I'm still stuck in your mess

and i tried so desperately
over and over again

to forget that cold heart
without burning hatred

I'm crying, you're lying
get out of my head

and I'm feeling so hopeless
all over again

i cant help that I'm tired
i just wanna lay in my bed
------------------------------
I can't stop it
I can't stop it
I can't stop it anymore
------------------------------

I speak my mind
And I speak my heart
I'll live my life
And I'll play my part

So what about you
With your laughing'n smile
Couldn't clean up your own mess
Do what you want and leave it to the rest

Cuz girl you did me *****
You closed your mind
So close your mouth

I can't help the fact
That I keep hating you
But every time I try to think
My thoughts keep coming back to you
-----------------------------------
you said that you're sorry
but I'm still stuck in your mess

and i tried so desperately
over and over again

to forget that cold heart
without burning hatred

I'm crying, you're lying
get out of my head

and I'm feeling so hopeless
all over again

i cant help that I'm tired
i just wanna lay in my bed
---------------------------------
I can't stop it
I can't stop it
I can't stop it anymore


I can't stop thinking about you

There’s something about late September
that makes me want to text people
I only miss when I’m too tired to lie.

There’s a moth in my mouth again.
I try to sing and it *****.

Some nights I rehearse conversations
with people I haven’t forgiven.
Some of them are alive.
Some of them are me.

I keep a list of people
I swore I’d stop dreaming about.
I keep dreaming anyway.

I talk to no one
like they’ll answer differently this time.
I wake up with a wingbeat
pressed into the backs of my teeth.

I think I’m leaking
something no one taught me how to name.
It leaves stains on my straws
It fogs the mirror before I do.
It answers to my voice
but only when I’m not using it.

There’s something about late September
that makes everything feel returned,
but not forgiven.
I don’t text them.
I let the silence say maybe I meant to.

I told the doctor
my heart felt like a flip phone
set to vibrate
in the back pocket of my jeans—
buzzing between spine
and tenth-grade desk,
shaking my bones
like a train no one saw coming—
except me.

I could feel my pulse
gathering its coat, like it had somewhere to be.
He said I was within diagnostic range.
He said I was presenting as stable.

I said I felt like a girl
screaming
inside a library.

They said:
What a beautiful metaphor.
I said:
It’s not a metaphor.
It’s a girl.
She’s in there.
She’s still screaming.

And they nodded,
said I seemed self-aware—
like that settles that.

They wrote “no cause for concern”
in my file.
The room was quiet.
The library was loud.

My heart is still vibrating.
I feel it—
right there, between spine and desk.

No one picks up.

We said we’d never stop believing
in fairies,
in kindness,
in return phone calls.

We swore we’d never
become like them.
The adults
with milky eyes
and calendars
and knives
they only use for mail.

You said we’d grow up
but stay soft.
Like peaches.
Like lullabies.

You pulled your own tooth out
in second grade
just to see if the blood felt like something.
It didn’t.
But you didn’t say that out loud.

I held your hand
and told you it meant
you were brave.

You said the tooth fairy would bring you
everything you circled
in The American Girl Catalog.
You got two dollars
and a cavity.
Welcome to Earth.

I still have some of my baby teeth
rattling around in a film canister,
in the same box as my First Communion Dress
and my Princess Diana Beanie Baby.

I thought I was just saving pieces.
I never knew which parts of girlhood
were meant to be disposable.

As if saving them
meant I hadn’t lost
the rest.

I forgot to remember,
I remembered to have forgot.

You know the crazy thing about clocks?
Well, eventually,
They all stop ticking.
Like a sun dial,
The gnomon stops
Without light to make shadows.
But the funny thing is,
Time goes on.
Time is a constant.

I remember to forget,
I forget in remembrance.

Is Time despondent?
Is Time ebullient?

Memory. What's it mean to me?
Thoughts. What's it mean to be?

Is Time periodic?
Is Time cyclical?

What I remember
Is all; that I haven't forgetten.

If Time had a name,
They were called Kronos.
If Time has a title,
It is the Ouroboros.

What I forget
Is nothing; that I haven't remembered.

I remember in forgettance.
I forget to have forgot.

Before the crows sit
on the scarecrow,
I'll have you in remembrance
the path we used to walk.
I feel as if you are in my
aunt's house, being a symbol
illuminating the house.
When I sit alone, the absence
speaks you are alive, but I
had seen the grave.
I cry my heart out on
the bed, will you ever come back?
If your spirit dwells in our genes,
can you still embrace me in your arms?
Oh, my maternal grandma, I miss
your presence, like the old days,
even if I feel you are here.

My third home is so unmoved.  
It stays as recalled
smelling of the comfort of the first and last
as if to harbour memories regardless
of age, refusing to release its hold,
it stands so full of heart,
with echoes of dinner

with steam lifting from hefts
of potatoes and withered veg,
an adamant replay of checkered tablecloths
and brown orange tableware,
long cracked and stacked. You see how it was.
Close your eyes and hear the scrapes
of plates, the kettle.  
And that veined mug.