My mother cannot find her camera,
and I wondered if I'd left it with you.

My stomach churns like the deck of a ship
amid a raging mid-Atlantic tempest,
its bowels tender and full of friction,
a morose resentment of an azure message sent.

The Dungan name supports its own;
the pain of one is felt by the majority,
an empathetic woe of a blessing understated,
our emotional reason ranging far and true.

One text sent and the world turns dim;
I've tried to manage the mania and valleys
of the experiences endemic to our core,
but the truth remains that I've not healed at all.

I can envision the late New York nights,
our Hoboken studio glimmering in the sunset,
the white walls imprinted with our fingertips;
open bottles of wine half-drank scattered around
while the subway roars underneath the Hudson
as it zips to a jolting halt.

Meanwhile, the scars embedding my skin
have healed themselves through and clear,
yet the bruises around the perimeter remain,
their coarse outlines distant reminders
of the pitfalls of the love we once shared.

Fire and ice juxtapose into a glass of lager,
a cool glide down the warm embrace of my throat;
nightly cocktails of Lexapro, Lamictal, and Hydroxyzine
haven't succeeded in easing the terrors
plaguing my core in the brightest of nights --
it is surmisable that these wounds are lethal,
but I refuse to succumb once more to your flaws.

My mother cannot find her camera,
and I wondered if I'd left it with you.

Whether it lay with your father and his bourbon
or your mother and her manipulating lies
or your brother and his ignorant resolutions
or your friends and their misogynistic gazes,
I cannot say,
yet I felt compelled to outstretch my fingertips
as a solemn branch of the willow tree
waving in the wind, scattering in the breeze,
an innocent attempt to brush aside the despondency,
a sprout into maturity to digress from the winds
raging between us while residing so far apart.

Never truly have I possessed a hatred so seething
than the alps of brimstone in the frame of you.

My mother cannot find her camera,
and I wondered if I'd left it with you.

Perhaps I should have remained in oblivion,
restrained myself from the shackles of your presence.
Still, I refuse to conform to the demands of those
unaware of the true nature of my nightmares,
their benevolent intentions disregarding my truth,
white wisps of flowers stained with brutal crimson,
inching its way down the crevices of my mouth
while I reel away and encapsulate the open flesh
I'd just bitten through with this impulsive decision.  

But still...
my mother could not find her camera,
and I'd only wondered
if I'd left it with you.

why does it seem as if everyone has left me?
my hands quiver as i verbalize these thoughts
and the sweat from my palms dampens the page --
my vulnerability has become difficult to manage,
despite my mind's intent to remain good-willed
and my heart's discontent with the language misunderstood

friendship does not require ideological consistency,
and to believe otherwise is a detriment to the love
we are fortunate enough to experience in this life;
intellectual supremacy equates to the patronizing rhetoric
embedded within the elitism of the morally superior --
your grim clouds turn our progressivism dull

i will say what i need to retain a friend,
but the judgment within is a grudge untouched,
a ghastly bruise that never seems to mend --
you do not get to determine the language i speak,
the words i weep, or the healing i seek
when a bond so potent is forgotten so easily

to question my morality is to question my identity,
and those who know are the ones to see me grow
as i flourish from the bounds of these restrictions
and inch my way upright, stronger than before,
disallowing my words to be misconstrued,
a prohibition of the trauma i continue to elude

a Leo is loyal like the lioness of a pride,
gnawing at the flesh of the ones who betray --
grudges maintained in the chill of the winter,
a midnight breeze toppled an unchanged core --
it is not a star, this dim light retreating above,
merely the fading memory of our platonic love.

His name is ingrained into the fabric of our flag,
yes, the one you see there, waving in the December air,
with waves that glisten not from sun but from wind,
through the water turned frozen they fail to despair,
"My, oh, my, it's Washington Crossing the Delaware!"

Yet an intrinsic sense of nationalistic pride
exudes from the ink that tattoos this canvas,
the genesis of a nation they had taken for their own;
though, as truth becomes told, our pride seems to fold,
and the ink in the portrait begins to fade in color.

Still, on he trekked, though frigid and cold,
as hills bleached in snow began to unfold
potential Hessian retreats scattered across the beach,
a visualization of a battle bounding to unfold,
a strategist adept in war, in honor he was cloaked,

too determined to fail now.
But here we sit, in contemplation and wonder,
pondering the juxtaposition of privilege and patriotism --
how deceitful corruption now riddles those in charge,
empty promises as true as the navy blue

of the oils that stain this worn, cherished canvas.
Its memory lives on in the minds of many made here:
those of us who bleed the good ol' red, white, and blue,
and those of us who hide from the ones who tattoo
their whispered words into the portrait of our being.

Our quilted nation is laced with crimson,
a tapestry of history hidden from the young;
woven threads of variability outline the margins,
a picturesque vision of what could be; a voice speaks,
"Perhaps our future is just across the Delaware!"

In the shadows of the walls
where laughter once reverberated
as a symphony of gleeful bliss,
intonational inclines arise in the dark
as dancing phantoms haunt
the smirking silence which dissipates
from the splotched, upended floorboards,  
while midnight footprints breathlessly creak,
cradling the demonizing affirmations whispered,
the very ones I knew would never become true.

We stood by, powerlessly spectating
as the love we once shared
gasped for air, red in the face,
its gushing carotid bulging in desperation,
four lungs incinerating themselves
with imminent anticipation
of the death gleaming
just over the horizon,
its violet hues juxtaposing
with the glimmering night skies
of faded constellations comprising the celestial
as moonlit silhouettes waltzed across the water,
a bright cerulean rippling in our presence,
the genesis of a journey unforeseen.

Brutal acceptance rains from my eyes,
a rumbling river that reigns supreme
over the rounded stones stacked high
as a towering dam of branches and rubble,
leftover waste long forgotten and forlorn;
hometown fantasies of childhood memories
linger longer than our lost loyalty,
liberating me from the rusted chains
you'd stapled into my brittle bones,
a leash tied tightly around my throat
to **** me from my courageous caution
back into the splintered wheel
dictating our selfish agendas,
empty promises of dilapidated affirmations
now turned weary and worn
with this newfound sense of reflection,
a dichotomy depicting time's own passage,
the consequence of a metamorphic resolution
of open wounds blossoming into eroded scars.  

Futuristic visions of lesions now mended
seamlessly fuse with renewed self-reception,
your broken promises stitched with the threads
ripped from the capillaries comprising my core,
blood-stained carpet of scarlet and crimson
fading into an aged and weathered maroon,
never truly waning in its acquainted pigment
yet blossoming into a stained fabric
portraying the promises of the past,
of decayed ruins now industriously erected
into a radiant utopia of gallant, rubious valor,
the final product of an unyielding resolve
to have our story rewritten, our own steadfast evolution.

As evolution jumped from eon to eon,
the foundational hunger to remain
surpassed all bounds this great celestial
has ever witnessed in its cosmic disturbance.
How must Mars and Jupiter, these stars in the sky
view the deep blue that flooded the desolate,
a clump of collected debris basking in the ultraviolet,
unable to resist the presence of life, ever-so unwanted
and needless to exist? For our neighbors in the sky,
glancing our way in their soulless façade,
they gossip to their peers about the news over here,
the autumnal shift from emerald to bronze,
willows who wept in the heat of summer days,
dandelions dotting the ridges of a rolling hillside,
at times dipping their toes in the whispering waters
of a backyard creek caressing the moss
atop smooth and shimmering stones.

From nothing you surged as entropy evermore,
and from everything you share your entities,
the very body you call your own, the breath
you maintain in this cyclical palindrome;
as mere extensions of the singularity’s core,
you find yourself in this position of awe,
gazing at the consequences never meant to be seen.






How fortunate we are to find ourselves here
in a sea of tumultuous chaos, conscious and
ever-so present in the discovery of knowledge.
To look to the past through a tubular lens
and remain unknowing of time’s present state,
the physical probabilities of potentials unforeseen
bending the rays of time to juxtapose new and old;
reality remains a pervasive illusion
evading the grasps of human cognition. Our
consciousness supersedes the premise of us all,
but our curiosity quivers in the breath of the
meaningless; how could something so rare
and inconceivable surmount to nothing more
than the imminent emergence of an empty abyss?
We must never misjudge the reign of the cosmos,
lose all hope that nothing awaits --
this I will not believe.  

From nothing I surged as entropy evermore,
and from everything I share my entities,
the very body I call my own, the breath
I maintain in this cyclical palindrome;
as mere extensions of the singularity’s core,
I find myself in this position of awe,
gazing at the consequences never meant to be seen.

how dare you --
endless months of unraveling,
countless hours stitching wounds,
sunless mornings beaming with a nothingness
only conceptualized through experience,
with nights spent curled on the tile
writhing from the ache of embedded scars,
still mending the voids i had abandoned

500 days later i reside differently,
the threshold of a new chapter long anticipated,
a chance to refine my routine, to hone my rhythm,
to emerge evolved with renewed eyes,
a mantra of self-actualization
traversing turbulent seas within,
raging across the crevices of my core,
tapering tempestuous gusts,
emerging anew with a novel reverence
for the agony borne from your touch

a solitary text, a wrecking ball to progress,
returns me to that forsaken juncture,
perched within four walls of trauma,
amidst undulating hills of the bluegrass,
with screams reverberating through the valleys,
our fury etched into these uttered phrases

how could you —
500 days on, you persist within,
while I dwell less in your realm --
your echo lingers, though not reciprocal,
your manipulation, constantly unyielding,
the deceit still unsettling in its grip,
for change is but a mirage, after all.

tangerine cider tickles my tongue
ultraviolet undulates on the blacktop,
a summer wave of a mistaken mirage
falsified, yet ever-so-present

i could've sworn it was tangible
the taste of your lips i've forgotten
some of the memories have dissipated
brown hair trickles along my earlobes
chocolate caresses my cheek
eyes stay peeled on me

i changed

my skin has sunken with calories
and my lips have cracked unwillingly
i watch tires swerving by
and ponder the progress i've made

yet i can't seem to wonder
if i've forgotten a piece of me
as i searched for what i'd lost,
for what you had stolen,
to no avail

how can i forgive someone
i can't even fathom to respect

empathy is a blessing to others
but a curse residing within

unforeseen laughter tickles my tongue
ultraviolet undulates against your desktop,
a newcomer waves to your own entourage
falsified, yet ever-so-present

i heard them say it's bad to push away the negativity
under the blanketing embrace of a nice evening drink
but my mind isn't well and my time seems at an end --
do i really have a problem when i worry that i'm the problem?

do i need to abide by the constructs those i do not know
have created for people like me to stand beside and follow
despite the everyday occurrences that warrant the attention
of those who sit and wait and do not listen?

shall i walk my way down this narrow street
under the dimming streetlights as cars pass me by
just because that's what's supposed to help me survive?

or perhaps i should visit the dwindling spaces
occupied by those paid to sit and listen
to the life stories of those they do not know?

shall i trust their intentions and pray for remission
of these symptoms that never seem to fade?

no -- instead, i think i'll bask in this sun
and reach my quivering hand to the right
to pick up my drink tilted on its side
and press it to my lips to taste the bitter embrace
of this warm can of serotonin and dopamine.

Beneath the skies so lush and wide,
Where bluegrass sways and winds abide,
The sun above in glory shines,
Painting clouds with radiant lines.

Yet we were over, before begun,
Gratitude and sorrow, intertwined as one,
Emotions buried deep inside,
Beyond the universe, they hide.

My time here, a fleeting ghost,
Loss, a demon, unwelcome host,
Apocalyptic visions through the night,
Rhododendron blushing in the moon's soft light.

Bloodstains bleached from secrets kept,
Lies in the darkness, secrets swept,
Trembling hands, a race we'd run,
To find a life that's just begun.

This plasma sphere, it fades away,
Marigold hues in the pine trees sway,
Rolling hills, a green domain,
A rollercoaster of life's refrain.

Awakening to what's been concealed,
That toxic love, once so unhealed,
Shackles shattered, I am free,
To chase my dreams, my destiny.

Nature's grace, without judgment here,
Embraces me and holds me near,
In its soulful eyes, I find my peace,
And as I breathe deep, my troubles cease.

i had a great day-
although it was raining
and the skies were dark
and i passed faces i felt like
i've never seen before.
but it was still a great day,
comparatively
despite the revolving visions
of the past where i was pained
enough to be forever engraved
with a symbol of the mistakes you made.
it was still a great day
hold your head up high,
know the past is in the past.
but it's not-
the past lives inside me
a fiery tornado of rage,
a sinner living amongst perfection,
holding me in its deceptive embrace.
i try to let go
of all the things unforgotten
but i cannot seem to forget
the way you hurt me.
today was a good day
even though i remember
all the things in the past,
at least we have the memories
that seem to fade so fast

For each moment we live
the universe gains a sense of meaning,
an explanation of the origins of life
on this jagged sphere pummeling through the devoid
at an alarmingly quick rate.

We are the reason the universe exists;
if we were not here to view the stars
that line these dark skies,
would there even be a sky in the first place?

Is the infinite possible
if we were not here to decide?

Is consciousness the premise of matter,
or is there an underlying meaning
to the point of this all
that supersedes our infant understanding?

Is there truly a concrete precedent
to establish the groundbreaking ideal
that we are alone in this vast expanse
as we eagerly await the impossible?

I gaze upon this world we know
and come to find that, instead,
we reign in a world unknown.

The sun never rises here, the moon never falls,
despite the nightly intrusion of thoughts
that never seem to expire into the current.

Two birds screech above but I do not listen:
“Our religion is one of love,” they tell me
while they slam the door in my face
to go and vote for a straight man elated
to erase the love I have for nobody but me.

“Church is the only path to Salvation,” he tells me
after a night spent in my hometown bed;
hypocrisy is the root embedded throughout the forest
of Fatherly Love, created only to benefit those
normal enough to write the rules
before anyone else could…
                                                  How convenient.
Our Father makes no mistake
and carefully creates us all,
yet my love is seen as a ******* painted onto
a blank canvas thrown across a rusted floor.

“A genetic error,” say the men who later imagine
the ache of my nails digging deep into
their rugged, tightened backs;
the wedding ring on their finger
refracts the light of the bathroom mirror
as cans of crushed beer pile high
in the trash strewn
on the ground behind them...
                                                  So many frauds.
I live my days on the edge of whitewashed insanity,
yet forever closing my eyes to darkness
is a life I wish not live:
the mothers who birthed us to fade into the grave,
the love they lent evaporating upon expiration,
our fathers who protected us far removed,
their eyes forever closed, their life no more.
I cannot fade into nothing, this I won’t believe…
                                                                                      So hopeless.
The God I love does not punish
those defying the rules He’d always known
would one day be certainly shattered;
He does not make me love men
and sentence me to die in the same command
despite the thousands of hymns I whispered
in the solace of my childhood room.

He does not send men to sleep at night
and force them to question what they feel—
tossing the sour taste into the background,
ignoring the truth of the real me…  
                                                             How cruel.
The God I know made me the way I am
and is proud of me for taking it in stride.

He does not wish to see me change --  
He frowns at the men desiring revenge
on us who wish to be left alone --  
we do not need your opinion,
we do not need your love,
we do not need your thoughts or your prayers,
for the God I love welcomes me with open arms
unlike the multitude of others I no longer remember…
                                                                                          So unimportant.

I envisioned these days so often,
fearful of the independence soon to come.
Repression has surpassed to grant this favor
of forgetful remembrance –
or perhaps my memory you’ve stripped as well.

Loneliness stalks even the proudest of prey,
probing the crevices stashed deep away
to betray the very promises endemic to your core.


Now do I savor the silence I once abhorred.


I lie and I listen to the serenity all around,
obscurities of the day whispering from my walls
as an auburn Cardinal serenades from outside.

The moon beckons me near, apologetic murmurs
of her needless façade from the past –
a revered box fan underwhelms the silence
and disperses my diffused Siberian fir,
crips notes of pine and aromatic wintergreen
to soothe the comfort of my nightly routine.


Now do I know myself more than ever before.

I do not like you
I do not like you
I do not like you
I do not like you.

But I am too afraid
to disclose this
to a face only seen
through a screen;
too many times
in my crime podcast
has a gracious disclaimer
turned oscillating lungs
into a nameless victim.

No,
I do not wish
to become
just another episode.

So for now,
sure,
I like you,
I guess I’m just
“bad at responding.”

A swaying synthetic tub
waltzes in summer’s breeze
fingers interlocked, one step two,
full of rotted leaves wilted petals,
afterthoughts of Spring’s bloom.

An underdeveloped songbird
basks in the Louisville sunlight,
infrequent chirps of language
misunderstood perceived as
barbaric melodies too primal
for basic understanding. The
song of the bird an audible
reflection of the natural world,
an epitomized version of swaying
bluegrass and beckoning bushes,
of turbulent winds and undulating
clouds, of violet skies lost in the
haze of a brackish day, of a setting
sun glancing one last time at
the eyes refusing to gaze back.

White-specked eggs soon to burst
with new life and freshly glazed
eyes; novel music awaits its
composition, written for the ears
no longer around to hear them sung.

you are the burn of cigarette smoke
painful, tearing at the insides of my body
yet i need you, i always crave you
smiling as you rush through my body
you can hear me screaming for help
yet i am silent
there is no sound, no movement
only the tears that drip from my eyes
a waterfall, slowly being drained of every drop
i look up
you are my detriment
and cigarettes only burn for so long

There's a newfound anger
that resides inside of me --
pent up from the terrors I'd pushed away,
it is a struggle between self-preservation
and mutualistic destruction,
a simplistic desire to never allow
another human to view me as you had.

Each day is one of unpredictability,
a meaningless forecast of the weather's
facade, too volatile to contemplate
in the midst of the browning leaves.

The hillsides, covered in a verdant green,
ripple above the river's trickling surface,
rising to the right and sinking to the left,
a cardiograph caressing a decaying heart.

It is most difficult to withstand the droughts
of summer, hastily transitioning to the blizzards
of winter before falling as the drops of Springtime
rain; even autumn at times can bring a bitter chill.

Yet the key is to take each day one at a time,
a solemn refusal to glance at climatic uncertainty,
but instead a gentle acceptance of life's sporadicity
and the fluctuating differences each morning presents.

it finds itself
so exhausted
it struggles
to differentiate
between
its dreams,
its nightmares,
and the reality
Sun brings along
as she awakens
each morning.

You could absolutely
accept the award
for the worst four years
anyone could endure;
anguished blame
to only entertain
the morose lament
of a brain so scarred
beyond any change.

Opal chains
locked to the bed,
a gentle quarrel
with the cracks in
the floor, a valor
of necessity wasting
the years away,
down the
drain the
rainwater
flowed,
spirals
upon
spirals
until no
more

I love
that I don't hate myself,
but I hate
that I don't love myself.

He strolled through shaded lanes
decorating his walls of time,
a gentle remembrance revisiting
the memories loss of hue
while floor collects dust
under tapping soles of feet.

My only wish
is to see Mom and Dad
sharing a smile
alongside the pride
they exude for me.

One pill,
two pill,
three pill, four,
i self-medicate
and contemplate
the love i can't
reciprocate.

One year,
two year,
three year, four,
i survived
and archived
the love i couldn't
revive.

One time,
two time,
three times, four,
i command
and expand
the love i now
demand.

vineyard ventures as dusk emerges,
city strolls under an overcast ceiling,
an evening partnered with a lilac vista
cowering behind the rising steel

there's a pizza joint just moments away,
and a coffee shop across the road;
these windows reveal too much --
intimate encounters and our rising intonation --
ignorance, a veil, defending hopeful grasps,
a cycle unturned of desperation repressed

violent retrospection rotted blue and grey
bleeding a warm scarlet through stitched skin
violet deception relied on predictable regimens,
championing the finale, marching away,
boasting the reality known to all,
savoring the painful recognizance  
soon to come

constructing walls endemic to home,
a malady suppressed within melting flesh --
time ticks silently in the background,
its roaring cries stifled by angst's grip,
spinning in moonbeams, dancing amidst the heavens,
inhaling the hesitant evening's mist,
musing on time and space's essence,
contemplating the laws of life and love.

so long i'd feared potential isolation
inner grace turned ragged and worn
silence numbed the pain of regression,
countless nights of social deprivation
i glued the soles of my feet to that floor
unmoving in my solace of grateful acceptance
my crumpled aspirations were scattered and torn
yet the reminder remaining was your skin on mine--
my bed was shared and my space was raucous,
the fear of isolation consumed my own soul
unwavering in its probability yet willing to misconstrue
a demanding reclamation of the strides i'd made
re-imagining my perception of who i'd become to be
prolonging the inevitable at my own selfish detriment
but enjoying the fact that at least i wasn't lonely.

I envy the amnesia
you weave through
the fabric of your
reflective recollections;
your tapestry is ruined
by the blatant narcissism
embedded into the linen.  

You've been eroded with lost time,
stained by spilt wine,
left behind in the cobwebbed-crevices
of our mind, a struggle to survive
the depravity of your kind.

The Fourth of May
passes with ease,
cohesive stitches
etched across my skin,
the only reminder
of your tattooed sins,
the very ones I always condemned.

Dreams of a life I now live, just now

I've finally begun to settle in
to this little nook in the corner
of a state I know too well.

I've been able to embed my roots
atop the limestone foundation
beneath the rolling hills of this city.

Upon arrival, I was splintered stones,
but through humid summers and empty winters
I've chiseled a new image from the rubble.

I can finally say I am happy again.

Now, upon an unexpected rejection,
one I have yet to fully swallow,
I await another move to a ground unknown.

I try to avoid any resentment
towards the names I thought I knew
while lifeblood trickles down my spine.

You've forced me to move from my family
for the first time ever; this is not what I dreamt,
but this is what you've forced me to do,

and because of that, forever will I resent you.

An entire life you'd lived
before meeting the newborn me.
Special recollections endemic to you,
your portrait remains in my mind,
long-lasting forevermore,
too fragile to crack at the base,
memories withstanding the passage of time.

Hidden tears -- no sadness, just numb --
atmospheric tones of silence and refrain,
solemn notes adorn the walls of time
as they await the change in hopeful tides.
Rusted scissors in the hair of strangers,
swiftly dusting the fallen scraps
while the sun begins to dip beyond
the realms of the small town called home.

Unwillingly enduring the loss of a half
I never had the chance to meet;
those wounds never seem to scar,
yet onwards you marched through the veil
of cloaked dimensions diminishing hindsight,
a fallen flag now ripped and torn,
fabric scattered across an empty hall.

With age comes a realization
of the obscure similarities between us two:
fierce loyalty defines our name,
unabashed quips at those deserving;
our tonal blades slice into skin,
a verbalization of the anger repressed far away.
Our fingers can move, but we cannot feel
the freedom of those who dilated our gaiety.
It is easier for us to hide ourselves away
from those undeserving of the thoughts we possess,
the lies we believe, the trauma that haunts
deep into the silent night.

Mayme you were to the blood not ours;
Mother you were to the three you'd borne;
Meemaw you were to the many you loved
who sprung from the effort you selflessly poured
into raising the fruits of your labor,
the unknowing preparation of a life not yours,
a labyrinth of encouragement and love
for those who'd come after you were gone
and we who maintain your abiding legacy.

Now again I can sleep once more
as I cling to the peace I've found at last --
no longer do my eyes struggle to close,
awaiting the dissipation of his breath
as he slowly ventures into sleep's abyss.

A nightly routine of restless evenings
awaiting the daybreak of morning sun,
a familiar comfort of light's senseful grace
caressing my wilted palms, pruned from tension,
drying underneath the ultraviolet cast from above.

At last I've discovered insomnia's antidote,
the mournful release of his quivering hand
ejecting me into a void of newfound rest;
trust is the apparatus of sleep's emergence,
and I've trusted none as I now do myself.

Cherry tomatoes
ripened and red
sprouting from
a store-bought ***;
sweetened soil
with water and sun
and leaves as green
as the growing grass.

Routine enacts certainty
when maintained concrete.

I forgot
to keep with it;
the scarlet skin
wilted dull and brown
and the leaves wrinkled
under a midwestern freeze,
a jar of life
left to die.

Two cherry tomatoes
survived the exodus
and remain alive
in the wasteland of death;
striving against the odds
to pull each nutrient
sickling through the soil,
sinking beneath the surface.

The most difficult lives,
the ones worth living.

A struggling scholar
suffocates under satin
sheets, silver weaves of
wool washing him in
a prudent ponderance,
postulating the possibilities
of potential preconceptions
positioned as pending promises,
tectonic tremors of time’s turbulence.

Muscle memory mimics
my melancholy motivation,
mundane mysteries molding
into lucid dreams of lifeless
discovery, of lamenting decisions
lining days of limited desire.

So I ignore the indulgence of
intimate incidents, the influx of
inhibiting infatuations inhabiting
my independence --

I break the form
and do as I need.

A dotted line depicts the distance
of all those who wish to see me near,
a desolate route devoid of any guidance
as each traveler strays from my directions.
I wish to move on from this solitude,
to extend my limbs as a branch of an oak,
reaching above to embrace the cool breeze
that dances across my skin turned numb,
bitten by the cold, awaiting its thaw.

Emotional introductions evocative of relent,
a painstaking desire to resent each progression
made on this journey of winding freeways,
the verdant foothills whispering me close,
an invitation inside for the darkness to engulf
the drastic resolutions that continue to evade.

The presence of life is only noticed
by the degraded footprints
etched into the unlit roadside,
indicative of the person left behind,
the grieving of a heart long forgotten now changed,
a two-way mirror cracked on the surface
predicting the obscurities of tomorrow's fate.

I continue to find myself stranded here
at the intersection of solace and intimacy,
a blind regression into the forceful indoctrination
that once convinced me of the intrinsic deformities
littered across my broken bones, my branded skin
forever possessing your infernal signature,
unrelinquishing my credence from your grasp
and forcing me into a haunted revolution
of all the words you'd made me believe.

I wish to move on from this solitude,
to extend my limbs as a branch of an oak,
reaching above to embrace the cool breeze
that dances across my skin turned numb,
bitten by the cold, awaiting its thaw;
intimacy continues to evade my grip,
slipping through my quivering fingers
as water flows from a rusted chalice
onto the bloodstained carpet below,
a discrete illustration of all the love
that continues to be ripped from my life
at the hands of you,
you who never truly left me,
YOU who deprive me of the intimacy
I once prided myself on,
the trust I was able to give
freely,
surely,
intimately.

I wish to be seen
by those unknown
just as my girl
looks upon me
each morning:
homegrown and unbent,
unrelenting in my valor,
no dissent in my mourning.

Strands of gold
conceal bright eyes
hidden beneath
irises of caramel glaze;
sugar-coated fur
softens a day's blow
and reminds me
of a life worth living,
even if it is not
my own.

You were named Sagan
after the stars in the sky,
constellations so bright
brimming in our peripherals;
out of all the tribulations
tossed onto my chest,
you are the one
worth all four years
we forcibly endured.

They say
a dog mimics
their owner;
unfortunately,
this remains true.

The click of the dishwasher
reminds you of our shouts;
the heat from the stove
alludes to our physicality;
the vroom of the vacuum
reminiscent of 3 am cleaning,
a naive attempt
to mitigate the complexities
of his notable absence
night after night,
abandonment,
disregard.

I hoisted you over my shoulder,
carried you across campus
in the dead of the night,
solely to search
for his guilty eyes
peering from the shadows,
reflecting the prediction we'd made.

He has no idea
what he truly did
to you and me.

I am so sorry
you were borne
into an atmosphere
so dysfunctional,
so debilitating.

Showered with love,
yes you were,
but our words
rushed over you
as a stream of water,
bubbling through jagged stones,
reshaping your edges
into a rounded surface,
the smooth malleability
a cruel juxtaposition
of your selfless love
and your innate reciprocity
to positive affirmations
from those you adore.

We've made it out;
we've survived it all.

I do not listen
to the muddled hypocrisy
jumbling from a preacher's mouth;
yet, each night, I thank God
for giving me you,
so true, so blue,
so innocent, so perfect.

You were what I needed
to make it out alive,
and you are what I need
to maintain my breath;
you are the reason
I remain on this earth
to this day.

Thank you, Sagan,
for all you've done,
for all you continue to do
for this broken boy
undeserving
of your selfless,
unsolicited,
venerated
devotion.

Sometimes I wonder
if I'm even living at all --
is this view of the river
caressing its bending banks
just a consequence of perception,
or is there an underlying meaning
highlighting life's realism,
tangible proof confirming
our collective fear,
that we are nothing
but a miniscule deviation
in the fabric of this life.

Views of a highway
tarped in a blanket
of rolling vehicles
fade into a portrait
of a sharp river's curve,
a creeping tide
marching alongside
the green density,
tiny bungalows stacked high,
hidden deep in the foliage
licking the water's edge.

Twenty-three years
of blood coursing through
has led me to this moment;
two full seasons of inner turmoil
compounded with the ferocities
of self-preservation, of self-healing,
surmounting to an inescapable reward,
one of recognition for the atrocities
woven through embroidered experiences.

This collection is a mirror
reflecting the very words
that attempted to restrict
themselves in the depths
of my haunted mind;
a journey of trial and error,
a rediscovery of the mechanics
of my persona, of the ways
I find myself surpassing
each obstacle standing in my way.

Stringing words together
to create a tangible obituary
mourning the losses never believed
I could transcend; I release
the demons dictating my life
as a puppet, accept the past
for what it will always be,
welcome myself with ease,
treat myself with kindness,
allow myself to heal, to live,
to thrive, to grieve those
undeserving of remembrance,
a valor of undisputed disloyalty,
one of generational trauma
bestowed upon those
kind enough to try.

This is my transition
to a new era welcoming
me with outstretched arms.

Obsidian ink courses through my veins,
antiquated insults tattooing my tissue,
repressed memories parasitizing my skin;
these open wounds have festered for too long,
rotten pus oozing from within. Emotional apathy
is something I yearn for, the desire to simply forget
the love I once convinced myself I held for you.

Several attempts have been made
to erase the blemishes on my persona;
anxiety, self-consciousness, suicidal tendencies
have adorned the walls of my healing,
a journey I've embarked on with no light
to lead the way. I've tried and failed,
prided and embarrassed myself,  
built identities I wished I had,
convincing myself they were endemic to me.

I've traversed the landscapes of undulating hills
dotting the horizon of nostalgic optimism,
isolated myself away from civilization,
lost the friends who prevented my downfall,
forgotten the names of those who wished to save me
from my own destructive tendencies, eventual crumbling.

I've thrown a blanket over my tumbling life,
donned a mask of confident supremacy
as to not humiliate myself for yet another time.
I've viewed myself as a pathetic usurper
of the throne of worthiness, too weak
to wear the crown of deserved exuberance,
unaware of the weight my trauma exuded
onto the entirety of my faltering body and mind.

A ritual of morning nausea riddles my routine,
throbbing headaches stapled into my cerebrum,
****** shakes and dripping tears from the words
of others who remind me so starkly of you. I've laid
hands on others who wish to view me as you did,
flashes of vibrant red obscuring the clarity of my view,
a vacant disguise devoid of authenticity,
displaced by a sense of dysphoric delusion.

I wish to redact the love I almost died for,
a valiant knight falling in the line of battle,
unaware of the forgotten valor soon to follow.
As I awake to the next day, I hold onto a new
sense of gratitude, one that has never seemed
to arise in my lightest of days. It is difficult
for me to search in the future, uncertain whether
my two feet will be implanted into the dirt
at any given time. I have lived in a torturous
temptation of the anger I harbor deep within.

Purple inflammation underneath my eyes
has become a fundamental aspect of my
everyday appearance; exhaustion plagues
my daily experiences, and I can feel
myself slowly losing life at the hands
of you – yes, I do resent you.

I do. I do. I do.

This page, stained with the blood
of every dream you disemboweled,
crumbles underneath the weight
each word carries from the past;
my brain is home to a nest of hornets,
eager to pounce on perceived threats
often falsified in the face of distress.

I should release the restraints of the past,
drop the reins of the reign you once held
over the facets of my life, every nook
storing my deepest fears from the light
of day, the ones I hoped would never
turn true, only to find them arisen
as prophetical visions of our destiny.

This torture has endured for too long,
and the forgiveness I find myself
searching for continues to evade
my mindful cognizance. I’ve tried
to accept the faults parried onto me,
yet closure’s absence acts as an obstacle
preventing me from pardoning your sins.

This is the death of what I’ve held for too long,
a eulogy for the remnants of our shredded portrait,
its parchment slowly decomposing, pieces wafting
away in the breeze of the bay, reminiscent of memories
rusted with double-edged silence, slices of past lives
stitched together with the woven thread of trauma.
Page upon page stapled together, tangible reminders
of declassified documents detailing the secrets of us;
stylistic differences in poetical works may inhibit
the comprehension of such dense material, yet the
manuscript of my emptiness can only be conveyed
through such solidity. I approach the day when
my commentary begins to dissipate, fading into
a personification of demonstrative apathy. I wave
goodbye to the eagles, release my grip on Andrews
and our bench propped against our lake’s shoreline,
close my eyes and envision the pink skies of Manhattan
without your silhouette blocking the view, taste the ramen
spilt onto the grasses of Central Park, inhale the aroma
of midnight amateurs huddled over a pan of pasta. Yes,
this is the death of what I’ve held for too long.

She is a single mother
who falters at the rise
of the moon; insomnia
dictates her daily ritual,
a plethora of anxieties
dripping down her cheeks
as beads of worrisome tears.

She's watched her son grow
alongside her own maturation,
teenage dreams mitigated by
the emergence of a new blessing,
one she never expected would come.

She is a warrior in the face of struggle,
her determination overpowering
the very odds stacked against her;
her refusal to submit reflects the reverence
attached to her newfound responsibilities,
a simplistic acknowledgement that she is
more than she would have ever guessed.

She reigns in a world of capitalistic greed,
self-sacrificing her needs for those of the eyes
looking into hers each night; although each
abhorrent remark penetrates her skin,
her ability to withstand the torture elicits
a sense of unconditional love only reserved
for those holding a dim candle in the darkest
of nights -- she is a fighter, a dreamer, a mother.