this is my favorite pair of jeans.
they fit my legs tight and then loose and the color keeps to itself.

this is my favorite sweater.
it keeps me warm and it’s the color of moss.

i’ve been wearing the same shirt for three days, but i’ve showered between those days
i’ve been seeing you for a week but you’ve talked to your girlfriend between those days.
my neighbor threw my clothes on the floor cause he needed the dryer
so now i have to wash them all over again and i don’t have $3,
the machine ate two so i only have one left

your copy of rear window is on my floor.
your copy of monty python is on my floor.

thick hair, thick hands, thick wool,
i’m thinning but you’re only getting warmer

i’m tired of men entering my life and taking all of my heat right before winter comes.

That look,
that look you're giving me,
i could tell what it is from a mile away.
You aren't mad, no. You're disappointed.
That look,
that look you're giving me
with your eyes darkened and the corners of your mouth twitching down.
You aren't sad, no. You're disappointed.
That look,
that look you're giving me,
like i just stained your favorite sweater
the one that fits you just right.
You aren't remorseful, no. You're disappointed.
That feeling,
that feeling I get when you give me the look.
It's a punch in the gut.
A loss of trust.
A trembling, constant worry.
I'm not disappointed, No.
I'm the disappointment.

n.p.

A little battered, a little worn
A little stained, a little torn.
Bits of sweat and blood and tears
Stretched from sleep throughout the years.

It isn't much, but it's like me
Filled with care and memories
The white no longer holds it's glow
But it's still warm and soft and so
If you need my sweater,
I'll give it happily.
I know you'll wear it better
And with you I will be.

write something beautiful,
they ask, beg,
threaten.

but i feel so utterly,
so utterly,
uninspired.

the ink is running off,
and dripping to the floor.

beautiful women live in my head,
beautiful melodies play through it.
yet nothing beautiful comes to mind.

tired eyes stare back at me
-because this beautiful summer life is dying.

there is so much to do now,
and i can’t seek out inspiration.
i’d have to hunt it.

i’d have to save this part of myself,
immortalize it in the fabric of my clothes.

i’d remember it in class,
starring out the window.

i’d remember it in winter,
wrapped in a sweater’s embrace.

and then it would die in the spring,
the most beautiful season, so they say.

i
hate
it.

but i think for now i’ll immortalize this moment,
with the hate and fears,
with the threats and the fame.

because i’ve written something ugly.
this is my reminder.

Picking up wool with your needles
A long straight line  turns into a sweater
Change
The rule is that we move towards the unknown
Or away from it
Which one do you want it to be

Hatred rises from below
Reaching the maximum ability of vague comprehension
It starts and ends in the same moment
I think
I can imagine myself without a final point in this Cosmos
Knitting myself out of
the dimension I was destined for
is futile

All understanding: science,
religion,
merchandisable forms of expression,
art, philosophy
manipulates a piece of us but
I am left devastated
No amount of material will make a sweater thick enough
to keep out the universal cold

There is a green sweater sewn to fit an old man,
Cigar smoke and stale coffee hang in the air.
Only a bright sunlight dances across the hills
Pouring in through the window and onto the rotting wood floor.
What if we find new places,
Escape the distant memories,
Memories deteriorating like the room we stand in.
Your hand in mine we can walk away,
We can walk away from your old sweater.
My friend, the hills are ours,
If only the roses don't bite.

soft sweaters and
harsh breathing
fabric pulled tight
around cold fingers,
the grooves of the stitches
an odd comfort

hair tangled with eyelashes
a dark curtain
a shield from the outside world
knotted and wavy
from days without brushing

toes, flexing
mouth, twitching
unable to stay still
unable to stop moving
for fear of losing self
in a world of bright lights
and too many warm bodies

blood, bubbling like soda
under skin
itchy
messy
get out
get quiet
get dark
please, silence,
no more

breathe in
fingers play with hair,
the texture soothing
repetitive
familiar
safe.

I'm an unfinished letter
a poem you would never read out loud
the cup of coffee you never finish
and the sweater you keep in your closet
unworn, brand new
the book you're forced to read
and the color that ruins the painting

everything that I say is far from who I am
don't believe my words
I know no trust
no such thing as simple or easy

there is no home in my body
run away before you're next I
will welcome you with arms open
you will be forced to stay
the emptiness will suffocate you
like it did me