No updates, we live private lives.
You left this town and all that I gave you in a pile.
Haven't heard your voice in some time.
Probably muffled with your brandname smile.
Photographs pick perfect poses.
You seem to have everything you've meant to own.
You got a new home with a new girl,
and even a dog like you've always wanted.
But do you even touch your keys?
Ever exclusive, babe, do you still make music?

Before I sleep-
I whisper prayers into pillows,
that you only be as essential
as I make you.
And every night my own sheets
become less foreign
and the memory
of your warmth every morning
becomes distant enough
to be forgotten.

What does it mean to relax?
I think I've forgotten true comfort.
Fear is a constant hangnail,
and the summer heat makes my nerves kick in.
My teeth peel skin as I worry and my clothes dampen.
Drawing my own blood, it's a stupid self-induced sin.
Voices whisper in my ears.
"Watch your gaze, or they'll think you're up to something.
They'll assume the worst.
They won't see your chewed up fingers
and they'll only see the thirst.
Your lips parched from heavy breathing."
Who spoke first?
Was it me licking my lips-
causing questions within them?
Or am I the one asking?
Wondering like this when I should be relaxing?
"Close your eyes to heighten the panic,
seems like it's euphoric,
But you're really just frantic.
Open them but don't look at a soul."
I have eyes that penetrate
as deep as their goals.
They speak more than my clothes,
they speak more than my curves.
If I stare at them longer,
and release my nerves,
Misunderstood.
Misunderstood.
I'll relax when reality
And their thoughts become good.

Chewing the hard burnt bits of cheese off of frozen pizza
I am soft, I am light, I am not giving a single **** about the extra calories I'm consuming at 3 AM.
Ellios.
But from the hospital my mother works at,
must have been reheated a few times now.
I don't ******* care. It's food.

And here I am. Alone in my bed.
Listening to Russian Circles and hoping
it'll help me write something actually worth sharing for once.
Eh, I'd rather not take myself so.

I like a few guys.
I like a girl very much.
I'm starting a new job.
I'm scared of what's to come.
I'm scared of disappointing everyone.
I'm an ellios pizza stowed away as leftovers, a midnight snack.
Hoping to be worthy of praise.
Sprinkled in trader joes seasoning. I'm just so special.
I'm tasty but I'm so much more than I seem.
Cook me in the oven, if you want me crispy.
I cure hangovers.
Just with my fingertips, I promise.
Sleep with me, and see.
You'll see that I'm honest.

You'll be there in the morning.
I might decide to take a hike.
Don't ask me to stay. You don't ever mean that.
I'm fine admiring myself in my frontal camera,
on a lyft ride back home with dancehall music in the background.
I'm worth so much of my own praise that I forget to text you back.

I can bet it was just as unbearable for her.

Not that I miss you,
but I liked sleeping alone
until I met you.

My heart is still a broken clock,
it stopped when you said "We need to talk."
It hasn't ticked a beat since then,
it only sits inside my chest.
It stuck where we were sickly green-
Yours gone blue, now red and mean.
All I see are plants and trees,
frozen with the honey bees.
There is no other soul in sight,
just your face etched in my eyes.
I haven't heard another sound,
since your backwards singing
comes around.
Circling in my ears all night,
my sleep is taken by your lies.
You've gone on living day by day,
I'm still standing in last May.
I'll watch you thrive for another year,
and then you'll have to disappear.

the belt around her waist,
mimicked your pale hands
forming an "o,"
while your fingertips meet.
though I told myself
my curves are as gorgeous
though your fingers never graced
anything thinner than my wrists
or the neck of your guitar
i felt my cheeks drain of blush
and replace with the color
of the grass
i rather lay in
than jog through
because the only sweat
i'd like to break
tastes like yours
and mine
and ours in a kiss
while your fingertips meet
around each one
of my *******
and inside me

I know I'll have to be one-
so I push a little harder.
The door swings open,
and there you are,
naked and crying,
with a blanket over your head.
I keep teetering about
on the threshold,
step in, step out.
I shut the door,
and walk around.
I might be the one-
but I'm not ready for your sound.

I was going to sit here on this sun drenched bench,
and write about how upset I am,
but the ample lighting licking my wounds,
the whistling winds kissing my cheeks,
and the colorful campus folk walking around with unspoken stories,
made me forget all about it.

A sharp pain
origins unknown
surprise in the disguise
of keeping it cool
am I to die from this?
I look to you for comfort
the reality of us in a dream like state
a fear that it will all go away
disbelief in your eyes
an incredulous smile
dying to escape
the lips I hold dear
something about your face was cold
this is all too familiar
and the fear reached a point
I just could not take
could not keep my heart
safely in place
it leapt in my chest
at the sight of that face
and the sharp pain came tenfold
pinned me down to your bed
woke up groggy
pain faded
fear instilled
wish to stay frozen
to have just been killed
I am alright
body is better
mind is in trauma
wish my heart was a feather
so I left it in your bed
tortured and tethered

The things you say linger in my head a bit longer than they should.
I remind myself that those echoes should be taken with a grain,
and cynicism will keep my resolve alive.
I tell you I don't believe you when you say you've missed me,
while I'm stifling the excitement inside.
You're pleading when you ask if I am leaving you
and I put your mind to ease, even though all you can do is sleep.
You say you want me to stay but your offerings are modest-
lazy yet earnest, you kiss my forehead and doze off again.
You approach everything in life about the same-
except those of which don't seem to work the way you want.
Should I disappear for a while?
I worry I might be replaced.
I'm not quite good at all those games-
but I'll watch you play, you'll tell me the stories so maybe I'll stay.
I'll curl up on your sofabed and be your cat for the day.
And when I do leave, I'll wonder if you'll hear me pleading too,
You might think if there isn't distance I couldn't miss you.
That's not true.
That's not true.
At least I think- but take it with a grain and see me again.

Cursed questionable platform,
but at least I know you're awake.

When I was younger
my older brother
would turn the lights off
and whisper...
"DARK FOREST!"
In a deep and scary voice
and I'd flee the scene,
like I passed gas
and didn't want anyone
to know
it was me.

So many little ***** hands reaching out
for an empty watering can.
The pipe always seems to be closer
than it looks.
I shut my eyes tight sometimes and
let my fingers find a rhythm
or lose myself to the whirr.
I forget to meditate, or write things down,
I browse IG, fall into pattern of searching
for familiar names.
I find deals online and shop away the panic
Settling in, it’s replaced with commercial
anticipation- instant gratification-

Jesus ******* Christ I can’t even type
with my headphones on,
this car is always the obnoxious one
I never learn.
It’s the closest to the stairwell but I guess
I always hope that people would consider
That roosters haven’t even crowed yet
And maybe whisper?

All the withered flower crowns have fallen down on trodden ground,
among the garbage disarray of empty beers and cigarettes.
These are memories of drunken folks with tired eyes and weary legs.
Lets lift our heavy waving arms and jump high above the swarm of heads.
The band we like is playing now, but they're so far, we lay instead.
Forget the sheets and towels,
the grass and dirt can grace our skin.
The sound of the bass reverberates in our chests,
This is the best.
Our voices are hoarse from screaming loud and cheering on the gods on stage.
we forget our age, we forget our pride,
we exist as music groom and bride.
Escape all thoughts of work and school.
The grass is cool,
The beating sun has come burnt us all and gone away.
This pending night  has come to chill our bones and remind us we have place to stay.
Let's sleep up now.
Tomorrow, who will we see play?
The final day, let us power through.
Make little histories into me and you.
Dreams and sky only leave our eyes,
when our feet go back to our real lives.
As it ends, she tells us it's sad.
Until this second, I didn't understand.
A festival is a fantasy world,
a dream we'd sleep for as long as our bodies could,
and now it's time to wake up and return.

Behind the traffic of thought
the type that creates
tracks along desire lines
tires screech in frustration
that got me
nowhere close to discovery
i began realize there is a presence
within the whisper
of the windshield wipers
buzzing in inefficiency-
reminding me
that it doesn't matter if i'm
stuck behind a line of slow cars
honking in patterns of unrest
the rain will always wipe away
to reveal a bit of clarity
in my direction
and though it is only feet- inches?
there is movement.
and every time we're on the road
together
there is company.
and as long there isn't any red
or blue lights flashing nearby,
we can try to smile and enjoy the ride.

They’re supposed to keep you warm, while you hold things when it’s brick out.
But mine never fit right.
Sliding about but if they’re tight they’re too thin,
If they’re thick I can’t type with them.
When something fits like one, it’s supposed to be perfect. Sleek- form fitting,
Perfect match.
That hasn’t quite happened yet for me.

I should just hide my hands in my pockets.
I need to feel things, anyway.
I always lose them, anyway.
I sure know how to choose them,
Heat-tech and fingerless, mittens
and insulated.
What’s a middle ground?
Dirt is healthy, anyway.
I rather just see the ghosts, anyway.

Down a glass of wine and hold it to your ear.
A mock ocean swirls in its holy emptiness.
You are sitting at the bottom- with nothing but death wishes
and sweet kisses.
A small hope for real love oozes from clasped fingers.
But you squeeze it away to sing karaoke at the next bar.
They love you because you are free and boundless like the red balloon
that floats in their heads,
simultaneously.
You can own them all with your laugh- how personable you are.
A pseudo sociopath on the verge of make-believe
horror stories, spilling out on to the bar-
with your last drink.
Let them think you don't play dumb.
Let them think you don't drink yourself numb.
Stomp away with your cigarette-
Do they know you know they know?
It doesn't matter- call the next one over.
The ocean will always crash in your glass-
an empty temple of company.

Sun's going down and I'm trying my hardest not to think
of the walk back and enjoy the nature.
It's a littered mess, though.
With discarded refrigerators, tree glass, the paper cups,
products consumed and departed.
And it's hard to feel one with the wood,
but it's easy as well,
we're just like the trash.
our millennial fashion clashes with the fallen leaves,
and our indie rock from our portable,
doesn't blend in with the pebbles.
I sit on a tree, turned over
while the sun gets lower.
I've got this eminent feeling,
that this trip back we'll be keeling.
The trees are still bare but budding,
still it's something.
I imagine this is where I should breathe,
the extra oxygen.
But all I smell is city air.

Forgotten crosses in the clearance section-
religion has become cheap.

i caught myself
before i caught a bad case of you
staining my sheets and making me believe
you meant when you said
i was your favorite person right now.
such a loud and pointless thought,
drenched in impermanence
lacking the resonance
that a favorite should hold
so i place you on mute,
to dull the sting of not being responded to.
i look towards the weekend,
where i'll probably miss the way you look at me,
but not the way my wallet drains a little
and the way we stumble drunkenly up my stairs
you- perfectly complacent,
i- nervous as hell that the nosy neighbors
might loosen lips to my crazy family.
i'll probably miss the way you feel within,
but not the way you're comatose in sin.
apathy is so last year,
but i won't expect you to remember
that i was your favorite right now.
but you were my favorite never.

If you must know
why I kicked your stupid
"MEN WORKING AHEAD" sign
into the street,
This WOMAN WALKING BEHIND
is not for you to comment on.

Someday I will meet you-
and probably be sadly disappointed.

Give me some wine
So that I am not afraid.

the moment I wake up, my room is shaking.
It's 7 o' clock and the kid that got arrested again last week,
is blasting EDM downstairs, and my walls
are reverberating.
My walls are always reverberating.
I've lived in this ancient building since I can remember.
My consciousness began in a blue apartment.
We've only moved once, and its was to the other side.
I roll out of bed and head straight for the fridge.
There's some rice and beans from this haitian lady-
my mother's only friend.
They don't really understand each other,
but they're always exchanging food.
I take a plastic spoonful.
It's really salty.
I eat it cold while looking out the window in my living room,
my sweatpants are hiked up to my knees,
and my robe is hung loose around me.
I pull the blinds up high.
I lived on main street all of my life, but it's not too busy of a town,
so there aren't many cars.
I look across the road, to the art gallery that was just built
under existing residents.
That's cool
Too bad the owners are racist *****,
that would assume I was a muslim if I were to walk in.
Probably tell me to leave because they're closed,
when they aren't.
They told my friend, Mo, that.
He doesn't even practice.
I wonder if anyone else is looking out
of their windows at this hour.
Perhaps at me, and my disheveled morning appearance.
There must be a rave going on downstairs.
When it wasn't the laundromat it was this kid's
insufferable music choice.
Or the crack-fiends cries for money on the stoop.
I usually lock myself in my room,
listening to the hiss of the heater.
My blue-light blocking glasses on,
I stare at my lap-top screen,
typing in a mildly passive-aggressive tone.
Complaints to the landlord aren't heard.
I've little sympathy for most passive- aggression.
But I guess the powerlessness
is where it stems from.
I've got to escape.

The spaces between their thighs
signified
the act of vomiting and starvation,
or just really good metabolism
a small appetite
genes
but
considering that their instagram
has no photos of food
but filled with selfies
of their thin legs donning patterns
maybe they have that problem.
But they are beautiful-
I suppose.
I draw them without clothes.
Confidence in a pose.
and I, with my curves,
wouldn't mind to appear like them,
sans *****.
So I eat
and I work.
And I stare in the mirror,
and see the tiniest space
right below my womanhood,
and muscles
closing in
I guess it's healthy,
just not thin.

I miss the days
when the only way my heart
was broken,
was upon achieving an ending
to an RPG
I decided to leisurely beat
in a year.
That empty feeling afterwards,
used to be the only hole
that I dug myself
until I left the protection
of my bedroom,
and realized we are all games
Life loved to beat
over and over again.

I think I am
falling in love
with myself
again.

Small hands are squeezing organs,
from my stomach to my esophagus.
It all feels horrible,
like a spell was done and worn off again.
Manipulative magic, I’ve been here before.
But never with you.
I never thought I’d find you here.
Choking on the breadcrumbs of your alibi.
You were never good at hiding tracks.
The trails always led to the same place,
And now I’m doubting everything
from the color of your leaves,
to the sound of the wind.
Working off a sweat,
this relationship gave me baby weight.
For you it was whatever, so I roll them, you say “Baby, wait.”
Candy glass houses for your candy ***.
Sugarcoat everything you’ve omitted.
I disbelieve everything you’ve admitted.
Fire poker mumbles over the phone.
You’ve been lying with the witch
(‘s)is tongue still off limits?
I won’t step into the fire for you.
I’ll be out of the woods, soon.
Pebbles of wisdom instead of bird food.

I wonder if anyone listens,
but it doesn't really matter.

I realize I read many,
but few speak to me.

I'm scared to numbness,
clutching
my moral compass,
as the only weight
that keeps me from
blasting
off this cruel crust
of our planet.
**** it.
There was a time
my feet only knew to fly
in the right direction.

He ****** up.
He knows this.
There was no amount of pain she could have caused him
to make what he did alright.
The more time he spends remembering,
the more he wishes he could forget.
He could never tell her how far it went.
Some might think she deserves to hear it-
but he knows she values her ears,
and she'd probably never believe him anyway.
So he thinks she deserves to be spared.
He still thinks about her,
on colder nights likes these.
Wondering what it would have been like to spend it
with a bit more ease.
If he never left her,
if he never did what he pleased.
It might have been boring,
but at least there was peace.
It might have been unfulfilling,
but at least there was nothing to prove.
It was easy love- what they had.
She put up with his tantrums,
cradled him like babe.
He wanted more,
and he didn't like her lies.
So he made up his own.
He knows he never could go back.
But he still thinks of her,
on colder nights like these.
He sees her name come up-
and wonder if she could still make him smile,
when his heart hurt. Like she used to.
She probably would.
But she deserves far better than him.
And he deserves to learn.

We were at a gay bar for the first time.
I was reminded of friendship,
while she looked for love.
I have a purse full of memories,
and she looked at her empty hands
in disappointment.
I pointed to show her
in them we made her story.
By pushing the door that spoke to her,
that she once ignored
in a fear she couldn't accept.
I thought of you and smiled in comfort.
The women here are so respectful.
And fun loving.
Singing 90s songs.
That is where her love may be.
And mine is home with you.
Because I've been thinking 'bout you
ooh na na na
I've been thinking 'bout you
I shared her cigarette,
and met a woman with a husband outside.
She is a frequent there-
I can't sing for ****.
But I heard some melodic voices.
I don't know many good karaoke singers.
I'd like to hear you up there.
Do they have Morrissey?
Lady called my name.
Center stage.
I'll think about you ooh na na na
and sing away.

I can show you exactly what it feels like
to miss someone-
I can show you the meaning of a real
tender love- unconditional,
and give you all of it in an analogy
about watering plants or something,
and pray that you'll listen for a second
and learn about me,
but sweetheart,
expectations are the vapors that escape my whispers,
and they can't be seen
as much I can't be heard,
and I know they won't be remembered
when I blow them in your face,
seductively or not.
I know you know how to play a ***** game.
And while I'll try my hardest,
my darndest to play it better-
I know what it requires.
I know you have it and I don't, and if I were to,
I wouldn't be your sweetheart, would I now?
No, I wouldn't be me-
and every time I realize how much power
I give that stellar smile of yours,
sweetheart,
it doesn't seem to show up.
I know when it shows up, though, because it always does.
It shows up when I've lost hope,
and I'm feeling flighty, lost, and ready to beg-
when I'm terrified it'll never show up again,
it shows up,
and I feel saved.
But tonight, it's going to play differently,
sweetheart.
And I know you'll chop this up nice and fine,
to be something you're proud of me about,
because you know,
I'm just your little sweetheart,
but tonight,
I'm going make something out of this empty I feel
when you're not around.
I'm going fill it up with my stellar smile,
and show myself the meaning of a real
tender love-unconditional.
I'm going to take the loneliness that fills me,
break it up on this piece,
and smoke it away
while learning my life is better,
sweetheart,
without playing your games.

I like to take hot showers.
I spend hours standing in place,
with the heavy strings of wet heat beating down my face to my feet.
Soothing. Sometimes I’m brooding,
but this eludes once I meet quietude.
A hot shower is a forgiving mother’s embrace,
liquid form of sweetest praise,
and the warmest lover’s lace.
A hot shower will wash me clean of your ways.

I try to spend my time outside of myself
asking questions, learning lives,
anything that suppresses the memories.
The nagging voice reminding me.
It's not as safe as the world I live in.
But I'm aware that my mind
is expansive like Earth,
cluttered in some spots,
empty in others,
peaceful in the woods,
with battlecries in the cities.
Often misinterpreted-
full of the ocean and different versions
of everyone I know.
When the demons crawl up the ropes
I let them live in doodles
like ancient scrolls.
I send their resilience
to my dr. scholl's.
I try to think of the zen garden
behind where I work,
and that each concern
each worry
each blessing
are pebbles amongst captive nature.
And I am a bonsai thriving in it.
It just feels better to smile about that.

When honesty feels like your organs are exposed-
blood is slipping out numbed wounds and it's embarrassing,
then maybe at that point, it's not just honesty.
Maybe it's a blatant self-sacrifice, like a look-at-me
look-at-my-love-for you confession,
or even an I-can-rip-my-own-skin-off-
and-show-you-what's-inside plea.
Believe you me.
You'll be a Prometheus punished daily
by reiterating the truth over and over,
only to grow a new skin overnight,
before you ever lie again.
And that honest self-sacrifice should not
be for someone unworthy.
It's a truth meant to be seen by someone
with merit.
Who wouldn't take your exposure
place it over the fire for far too short a time,
and complain while they eat it up.
The right people are hard to come by-
because real honesty is barely clean,
and rarely meant to be eaten raw.
Self-sacrifice isn't light,
isn't always healthy,
and may leave you with a sick stomach.
But if the right person sees it,
they'll stitch you back up,
drink only your tears until
you have empty eyes,
and hold you and your secrets in,
like the sweetest child they could ever love.
Stop ripping yourself open
to people who can't deal with blood,
especially yours.

Make us pet names
and perfect cuddles
with precious time.

Find a good metaphor to die on,
in a poem at 3:24 am.
Alone in my own bed watching some cheesy
Hulu special with attractive people
who got their start in Disney.
I think about another failed relationship.
My eyes feel dry, so I wet them again.
This is real. This is healthy.
This is hurt.

Why’d he do that?
Self doubt creeps in like the black of night
slipping into my room while I count the hours
like I used to count his freckles,
or was that the one before?
I tried to feel longing.
I don’t want to be in his musk.

I don’t want to wake up the same.
Maybe I’ll wake up and he’d have never
done what he did.

But this was necessary,
at least valid.
The push I needed-
blessing in disguise of sudden
Loneliness during the holidays
while everyone I know
is with someone else
Happy or not.
Happy?
It’s not a constant, right?
I’m okay. I’m cleaning.
I’m painting. I’m flirting.
I’m hurting.
I’m certain this is temporary.
And I’m observing the resistance.

My ******* are hardened.
I’m not aroused- it’s just ******* cold.
And my human space heater
is out of service.
Need a new one.
Or a blanket.
A heated blanket. I’ll just get
A blanket.
They’re less disappointing.

In class,
all I wanted to do was to go home
to write poetry.

Now,
I sit here, done with the lectures,
but I've only written notes.

"If I was a bird, I'd be an owl."
If I was a bird, I'd be a-
"Don't say pigeon! I hate pigeons."
Pigeons? What is so horrid about them?
I thought and feared for my potential existence.
What if I was a pigeon?
What if my feathers were grey?
What if my belly was fat with breadcrumbs
and street scrap?
What if low coos did escape my throat
in efforts to keep warm and draw love?
What if children did push me to fly away?
What if I did choose to sit on trees,
and **** on statues of prominent people.
If I was a bird I'd be a warbler- no, a worrier.
One that plucks its feathers,
be it grey or rainbow-colored.
One that grows weak when flying in the cold,
but makes it south, all in all.
One that doesn't have a beautiful singing voice,
but chirps aways all in its lonesome.
If I was a bird, I'd peck at windows,
only to fly away
when someone comes to open it.
Because I know when I'm not welcome.

He doesn't like to skip pages
- I'll try to abide.
People like to talk,
- in books, I confide.
I wonder if this is legible,
or too riddled with pride.