‍   sometimes i catch myself writing like a 2013 tumblr girl. not that i'm against tumblr girls, or 2013, or the writing of girls, really; but you know the type i'm talking about.

‍   mentioning-a-body-part-every-few-paragraphs type. there-is-something-inside-of-you-(probably-a-flower-or-some-other­-plant) type. the type that reeks of cigarettes and seasides and longing. the type that could even just be one or two words

‍   ‍   ‍   written like
‍   ‍   ‍   ‍   ‍   ‍   ‍   ‍   ‍   ‍ this,
‍   ‍   ‍   you see?

‍   ... and people gobble it right up. (i can't blame them. i once did.)

‍   i'm not sure when i realized that there's more to poetry than typewriter aesthetics and talking about bones and rib cages and oceans. sometimes i catch myself comparing eyes to galaxies and i laugh because there are so many eyes, so many poets, so many stars.

‍   i wonder if there's poetry in the little things. the mundane. rainbow gasoline leaks on damp streets; brown brick cafés during golden hour. untied shoe laces. kissing in the back of an uber. (there has to be, right?)

‍   (there has to be poetry in the way my mother bakes her chicken *** pie. the thrum of music playing from another room. emojis. how chlorine sticks to you after swimming in pools. hands that don't fit together; hands that are too big to hold each other; hands that clasp on to each other anyway.)

‍   (there has to be poetry in those.)

I was a Christmas present to you. Beautiful on the outside, but once unwrapped you didn't get what you wanted....

                              ~I'm Sorry

i creep back to you the same way your color floods
into my mind on the grayest of days,
and i cannot block you out no matter how hard
i **** you to hell.
i know i can't stop loving you,
and i try to recede like low tide instead of
swallowing you whole,
but the waves of high tide come and i crave being
engulfed by you.
and i don't want to be a black hole;
all-consuming for something,
for anything.
but in the dark i still find you,
and your bright baby blues,
i will always find you,
perhaps i always will.
maybe because i know your heart beats gold,
and only i see it,
so maybe i am lucky in that sense,
or cursed,
that if your soul turns black,
or vanishes into a colorless hole,
i will still always see your light.

they say we are made of stardust,
but we have to remember
that that was an entire explosion,
and that we are the product of destruction.

Hold the sun in your hands,
Bring up the neon lights,
Take up those lively stars,
And spread them across the nights.

Take apart the threads of reality,
The moon smiles down,
You're the only one,
Who lives in this town.

Your life is an aesthetic,
A pastel and grey nightmare,
You stare at the neon lights,
And can't go anywhere.

my heart does not work in the way that i'd like.
ask me if i am able to love myself,
and the answer will be "no"
even though i know that i should say "yes"
because i am blessed with the life i do have,
though it may at times hurt like cracked, bleeding anything
all just in need of repair.
i have nothing to fix it anymore...
i've used up everything,
and my heart beats abnormally;
beating for those who don't deserve it,
for those who've hurt it-
i still somehow find it racing,
jumping out of my chest just yearning for some other heart,
one that is more stable, and constant.
one that is not held together by thin weaves of thread,
and rusted staples that can't stay clasped shut for much longer.
no,
my heart does not work in the way that i'd like.
it is broken.
it is beaten.
and it is stupid,
but i am still capable of love,
and it may go to the wrong people,
but better wrong than none at all.

and you should tell her whose heart you still have
tucked away in the back pocket of your jeans.
and she deserves to know who sold it to you
in the first place for morning kisses
and cold feet in the bed,
because she plants her lips like daisies onto yours at night
and wears knee socks beneath the duvet.
and it's 3 A.M. and you're thinking about taking a drive
and she is fast asleep,
so you take your jeans and your cigarettes
and step on the gas, alone in your Camaro.
and it's still 3 A.M. when you pull into my driveway
and i'm awake, too.
and i say nothing when you unlock the door
and puff clouds through my kitchen.
but i should've known you couldn't remember
if it was my heart
or the nicotine
that you were addicted to,
and yet i padded to where you were,
pulled out your mug from the cabinet
and i thought about how much you traded
when it came to her.