Why is she the bad guy
because you don't get it?
Why does she feel guilty
for all that you have done?
There's never going to be
a good time to tell you that
we're done.

Buying more books than minutes to read,
It's a marvelous thing indeed.

a feeler, sensitive,
& indifferent
all in one.
What a confusing
thing to be.

did you notice the light go out in me?
of course not, when you always forget about me.
i feel the flame go out
snuffed to smoke
but i want the fire, the flame
what a joke.
i broke.

into some type of infatuation,
and then when i was bruised up enough
i climbed back out,
grabbed your hand,
and slipped back into something
that feels like love.

and I’m okay with that.

Who ever said that serious couldn’t marry silly and become one.

I'll prove you false.

After all, I’m in the truest love.

I wear my heart on my pinky finger
I've been making promises to myself
And no one else.

Each new love sparks a promise of evergreen
And now I understand, now I am willing to see,
Peppered hair, twenty-six, glistening grays,
This is supposed to go another way,
this is the start of something else.

What it must be like...you know what I mean?

the pain is not in the unknown,
it is in the knowing

though quite dramatic,
and quite active,
and quite loving.

Love is an action;
less a feeling,
less an idea,
less a word.

I understand now that I was trying to force feed my love to a boy that knew his allergy.

He should have told me -- the chef of my love -- that he wasn't ready, wasn't able to eat.

He should have read the menu and politely declined.

And I may have sent him on his way and we both would have enjoyed a better suited meal to fuel

Rather than pour into a malnourished body, mind, spirit.

Look at your phone, now, and understand that it is me not returning effort to you.
Look at your hands, now, and feel that it is not me making you feel unscathed.
Look at your table, now, and notice my body not there.
Your mattress, too.

Look around you and see me, and then don't, because I am far beyond you.

and for the first time
see with your eyes the eyes
that are not less than you wished
but are instead clear
no, they are green
they are you

To d(liberate)ly love:
the kind I'm in the market for.

I dream to string
words together,
that one day
someone might sing
them & say
that I mean
everything to them
in every way.

Where do I start
where do I begin

I dream he'll string
words together,
that one day
he might sing
them & say
that I mean
everything to him
in every way.

Where do we start
where do we begin

I want someone
to sing to me
that I mean
everything to them
in every way,
& in return I
will sing the same.

I want to feel your nose brush across my face;

lips of stone, melting at the break of mine.

Razor phones and razor blades, poignant pieces of teenage days.

& I spy a tight dress ghost.

Long list of Starbucks lovers.

Take cover,
take over.

Thirty is too young to know you’re nothing,
so get your head out of the gas.
Thirty is old enough to know you’re something,
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

Pressure expands more than your skull.
Mason jars in the cupboard clink
all the reasons you should be annulled,
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

Here’s what you missed in the other room:
no mother, no father, wooden food,
children play mommy better than you.
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

why should i continue to pour out to you
you seem not to care one way or the other
i ask my heart why she holds on
to each empty promise,
break again
and become stronger
strong enough to let go

In my life
I am the closest thing to permanent
and every single thing else
is exactly temporary.

You found four last cigarettes,
One for me, for him, for her, for you.

But I said, "Nah, you can't! You've come so far..."
Then I started to think: What's one last drag?

Times before. Yellowed teeth.
**** it, babe, let's just drink.

It's not about where you're going
You said.
It's about how far you've come
You said.
But I wanna go far
I said,
Let's go, come
I said let's go far away, come on

for you to hear
in hopes that
I might listen.

If I could be in two places at once
I would have been able to tell you
that while I slept safely on my couch
I was being strangled within my dream,
no longer by you, but by another.

Fearful, unable to wake,
and yet, alive and okay.

I would take to the lake.
Try to clear my head.
Think.
My boy, he liked coral pink.
And oh did his heart sink.
I took to the lake.
Oceans were too far away.
We shifted and we swayed.
Not today.
Couldn't stay.

Nightly, she mirrored his skin
with her hands pressed
to the places considered sin
when not properly dressed.

Connected dots with kisses
on his back, arms, lips;
the things she misses
are ghosts on **** ships.

Soft skin lotions her bones
soothing the stinging insults, raw
by his words in harsh tones,
like snapping the straps of her bra.

there's always a reminder.
she can't put this behind her.
no,
no more.

all she can take is for it to get better
and find a way to leave this behind.
her past self would run,
but there's always a reminder.
she can't put this behind her.
no,
no more.

Two showy petals pounce at me –
a magenta jaguar.

A porcelain mask,
a radiance of boasting jewels.

Preying, your menacing glare falls
bashful, dabbing a blush upon your

face of fragile petals, a myriad of kiss
prints upon velvet cheeks.

Spew butterflies from your tongue –
released, they scatter to the horizon.

Dawn frees them, fading into a rosy fog.

Retching over the rim of a toilet bowl,
how I was ever intimate with porcelain.
How or where I began is a misplaced origin.

He got me higher than I’d ever been before,
a relational swing, I dug into the unsteady gravel;
hours passed before my guard began to unravel.

***** never followed us to the park that day,
and he didn’t blink – even while we were liable –
as he rolled a fat blunt out of a page from the Bible.

If a wood is quiet enough,
leaves falling from trees
sound like feet shuffling,
sneaking up behind me.

I ponder a fall morning.

With a shushed mind,
stark silent as this fall morning,
I can hear the whispers from within
telling myself the truth.

Inspired by: “Vase with Red Poppies”
Vincent Van Gogh (1886)*

Through teary eyes, a blur
of succulent fruit hangs
from ends of stems,

perhaps tomatoes ripe
for picking. Tomatoes
like the ones a mother

used to grow before she
died. The poppies seem
to conquer the whirlwind

storm of blue wallpaper
smudged in the background,
the color a father chose.

The table holds pieces
Of once living stems
that they could not put

back together. Some buds
haven't bloomed, and you
wonder if they'll ever.

3.12

For no one particular,

I can only assume that you feel like love. Rather, your
fleece under my palms, like soft summer sand, burns.
But I love that and therefore must love you.
There’s anger running off my tongue, too cold. It’s
March, and I am not a fan of this, of you.


3.21

Went for a run on a projected-to-be beautiful day,

The sky rained angry. Though the hail did not last long,
it only seemed to pelt my face when I thought of you. Even the
sky pushes me forward. The flowers you gave me last week have died.

I didn’t even forget to water them.


4.8

To the one I now love less,

Admiring many new beards passing through
the line at the coffee shop this morning. From here,
even squinting, none of them resemble you. This
is satisfying. One orders an extra shot of espresso. Strong. I
think I have moved on.


4.9

A guy in line,

Your sport coat and sling bag hold you together well.
Elegant glue I do not often find around this part of town.
I am window-shopping. I haven’t worked in a week,
and even then I couldn’t afford you.

4.16

Eavesdropping,

I ordered an Earl Grey.
“It’s no big deal,” the barista said in some northern dialect.
I don’t belong in this conversation, but at least I am listening.
That’s what you wanted, right? Earl Grey. No big deal. Bite marks
on my tongue grow deeper still.

After you made the comment that we spent the past 48 hours together,
         as if you had been counting down the second- ticks on your watch,
         I spent the next 48 hours in my car,
         crying.
It was innocent enough, your comment.
& sometimes it feels nice to cry.

Please do not ever say that again.

Remember those days when you could imagine him,
dream up your dream man?
Remember those days.
Remember those days?
What happens when they fade?
Faces flood, faces blur, princess locked in a tower.

Do flowers have the choice to grow?
Do we choose? Do you know?
Do branches have the choice whether to bend of break?
Is this life's course? Is it too much to take?
Does the wind choose when to blow?
Does it get to choose when to stand still?
Do leaves drop at their own free will?
Do trees long to age past our time?
Where are answers to these questions of mine?

Look inside, look around.
From Earth to sky back to the ground.

What if on my way home I was in a car crash...
...I am fine,
but before you disappear a night at a time
let me know if you love me.
Miscommunication,
or needing space,
whatever we have doesn't need to be a race,
but let me know if you love me.

dotted hairs I'll shave until I die,
welcome to my inner thigh.

Dreamer until I die/Doer as I am still alive.

Each morning when I neglect to make my bed, I see your faded red towel folded on the corner of my nightstand.

This is a reminder that you will eventually spend the night again.
This is a reminder that you will eventually share wine with me  again.
A reminder that you will eventually hold me, eventually swing me     around in the kitchen, eventually kiss me first.

I don't know when, and the uncertainty wells up in my eyes. I guess this is what it feels like to miss someone who is right there.
We have not reached the point of routine, which is to say that we are not dull, though I cannot say this in confidence.

Each night when I climb back into my bed, I see your faded red towel, still folded, at the corner of my nightstand.

This is a reminder that he will eventually spend the night again, I tell myself.

One word answers. Red. A red towel reminder. Towel. When was it touched last? Tears. When was I touched last?

Like throwing in a white flag, I surrender to this sadness.

Respect a woman,
respect a child.
Respect a man,
respect the wild.

His soft hands at your waist constantly remind you of your imperfections. Thorns hold your identity. Your jagged body pierces palms. You would be all thorns if you could. Now plucked clean, stripped of all you were; you have kept each thorn in glass jars. Your bones hollow, more fragile than glass. Dried. Used. Showcased to old and new lovers’ below. Little victim girl. Your beauty is marred, though your fidelity to perfection resonates in an elegant face.

It's cold.
It's quiet.
I am cold
& I am quiet.
I feel cold.
To the touch,
in my organs,
& I hear quiet.
I hear everything
except for what I want to.
What I need to.

Quietly I sit, watching the cold waves of Lake Michigan
come crashing in, just like you & me.

Black licorice,
I don't wish
to be rich.
Money won't buy
happiness
but it'll get ya close.

Tousled hair,
Friday's cologne,
I thirst to sip you up.