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jee Apr 15
i’m sorry to my future lover.

i think i’ve broken a heart that doesn’t belong to me.

a heart trapped by the ivory bars of my own rib cage.
i’m trapped under an unshakable carolina cloud, with loneliness as an old dog beside me.
jee Feb 27
the brain and mind are not the same thing.

a brain floats, suspended,
down to the tips of my toes
and the blue rivers underneath my skin.

it is a box; simple tasks and quiet construction.

the mind has no such manuals.

it sees baboons in filtered skylights,
eyes as red as the blushing dawn,
gushing about over the hilltops of my shoulders.

it sees stop signs in the glass cracks
of my wooden closet door,
where the dark seeps around the green-light-go.

it sees fingertip to lip,
raccoons at rusty roadways,
Remus and Romulus locked in eternal combat;
preserved in the grains in the cherry tree trunk.

the brain is in the head,
but the mind is somewhere a little above;

hiding away in a doomsday bunker,
loud warnings burning the air,
bathed in cobwebs and blue lights.

away from people who haven’t quite learned,

that the brain and mind are not the same thing.
they say mind over matter. but mind is the matter. it matters to the creaks at 4 am and the cries in the bathroom stalls.
jee Jan 4
the ticking of the clock
like knives
through a grand piano,
whose keys are rotted
and whose wood is splintered,
leaving the strings to twang in the empty auditorium.

the aching in my throat
like dancers feet
bleeding through satin,
where only heavy breaths
and broken bones
decorate the time-worn mirrors.

the ocean in my eyes
like puddles
in a world-weary city,
where cigarettes
and car tires
beat down on the rippled glass in the street.

my hands,
grasping tightly,
crying,
to the star-sized hole in my broken piano chest,
my ballet slipper heart,
my oil-rainbowed tears.

begging,
pleading,
desperate.

please don't go.

please.

please, God no.

I’m not ready.

come back.

I’m not ready for you to leave me.

I still need you.

please.

don't leave me.





the clock ticks.


the ache burns.


the tears fall.






and the knife dulls on the glossy black wood.

and the blood washes away with cold water and care.

and the sun dries up rainwater pools.

and the hole is but not a crater on the moon, smiling down at the green-spotted earth.

I wasn’t ready for you to leave.

I don’t think I ever would be.

but you left your mark on me,

and all I can do is keep it living.

you keep me living.

and for that,
thank you.
you help keep me living,
because I see what death does to people
who don't deserve it.

— The End —