nobody taught me how to lie.
-sat down with me, and told me
in steps, showed me to walk up a staircase,
and hide in a glass walkway.

but people gave me their hands to hold,
a crying child,
and beat me when i took those hands.
my parents brought me home and told me to bat those hands away.

i learned how to lie, when people measured me
as if i was no more than a number on a wooden ruler,
lower than their own.
today, i know i’m not.

i learned to lie, when it all became too hard to bear,
all those late nights and broken pencils
tears shed everyday, yet you doubted me.
it was real.

my best lie was taught to me by a beautiful woman
-loving her was a secret, as was loving her and her and her,
because the very people who brought me home,
pulled me away from those rulers,
told me i was wonderful,
never doubted those tears as they were wiped away
would be the ones
who could rip my heart.

when life taught me that the truth
laying yourself out
-when it really matters,
rips you apart
you learn to lie.

when life gives you a secret worse than all else,
you see the consequences words can have
-you see that you are a sinner
you learn to lie,
and you wonder if you are a lie yourself.

have you ever danced in the sunset?
twirling in drenched gold evenings,
trailing rays of light like the skirts of a southern lehenga
bright gold, twirling kissed fingers allowing the sun
to smear your face, muddle your features.

have you ever drowned in the sunset?
did you hear me? turned it up?
/did you hear me/
spun under the sun rays,
kicked the beaten stereo until it played music-
such sun songs, bright and bold
singing under palm trees and crumbling homes?

have you ever played in the sunset?
like piano keys and fingers gently folded
by rays dancing through a windowsill
fading into rich floor, turning it worn
alone in the breeze, windows open
with friends, hearts closed
sun mottling pages?

have you ever loved in the sunset?
it all seems possible,
when your faces blur in the sky and then
darken, inevitably
it all seems natural
when you’re under the fires of heaven
who’ve dappled your body,
are waiting to flow through your veins.

the dreams fall from the sky,
into the children’s hands
a small child reaches her open and filthy palms to the sky,
a girl sets aside her books,
cradles a spider web of rain droplets
tucking in her heart,
the deepest corners of her brain, they’re one in the same.

love is so good when love is young
she knows this herself,
a sweet taste so different to the fires she knew
snatched away from her by her own hands
her own hands -broken as a scholar’s, as a child’s,
but never as the youth
never broken as a youth.

she breathes life into her spiderweb,
wrapped around her back
lacing itself around her
up her neck and behind her eyes
with each stroke of her pencil
each late night
each missed night
she sets her web free and begins to climb it as it grows inside her.

all her laughs,
shared with her spiders,
are we spiders or are we girls?
making our own webs, climbing them
-we look like girls
we look like girls as we wield our weapons,
watch our love die.
we are red widows,
hands dripping with blood.

a girl sits on the pavement,
lunch in hand
wondering what kind of times they were
-neither the best nor the worst of times,
but times spent at a coffee shop
watching the cars go by.

as the rain falls
-as it always falls at 2 am,
steady and calming
a world in limbo
despite all of the chaos that i so lovingly
call mine.

the birds aren’t out yet,
but the cars softly flash their lights
i shouldn’t be here
this desolate city,
mine,
this desolate life,
mine.

the plants sway softly,
ever their vibrant green and your cat meows
-the only thing along with your short hair
and scrolling habits
and off-feelings
you’ve been able to keep alive this winter.

lone figures in the winter,
at your desks -alone in class
smiling at a laptop,
the papers on your bedroom floor flutter around you
wind in my rooms,
slashes on the push floor.

slashes -also on the peaches
nectarines
fingertips (from falls)
coffee cups in empty cafes
and unthinkably
blueberries.

all of our photographs,
a poet said they would happen,
waiting to happen,
i think they’re right and
they’ll never happen
-it’s the kind of beauty arranged and taken down,
never enjoyed.

long ago there was a beautiful girl by the sea,
and she told me that if
we can find love,
and that is all we can hope for.

she took my hand, and led me
down to the coves, to a woman,
who rested her hands on the rocks,
where the sea met the cave.

she whispered to me in the summer breeze,
as my linens rocked on the lines,
she led me across the sand
away from home.

when the skies grew dark,
she carried me home
across the grey waves,
she sang with the voice of storm rains.

as the stars came out,
she pulled herself onto the rocks beside me
and we lit lanterns
in the warm summer night.

i remember her as the winter sky
envelops the horizon,
as i gather my bags,
walk away from the caves we called home.

no longer does her voice sing in the coves,
nor am i allowed to become lost
in her teasing eyes,
let her voice lul me across the world.

all i have of her is a distant memory,
an echo of the voice that drives me mad,
the sounds of the water lapping lazily at the sand,
the smell of a warm summer breeze.

a soft touch -sand on my feet,
linens brushing my skin
rough rock under my legs,
and the ocean far below my cove.