I’ve learned that everything that defines me is nothing that I actually embody, except for creating magic with the stroke of a pen. Maybe that’s a red flag. Maybe I’ll ruin you with the wonderings of if you’ll simply just be my next project. Or maybe I’ll help you finally see in color, showing you how to paint pictures with euphoric colors even when using just black ink.

The thing about poets is that we’re always searching for inspiration. I won’t hesitate to take your flaws and turn them into art on a page. I will try to figure you out through pen and paper, rather than speaking my mind. Because maybe in the midst of discovering you, I’ll discover myself. Maybe if I write enough, I’ll finally figure out who I am.

Marigolds overflowing in the garden, captivating bursts of yellows and orange. Thriving for only a season, it's a shame to see something so beautiful die just as quickly as it blooms. But everything is meant to have an end, at least that's what I like to believe. The beauty in things can't last forever, no matter how much you want it to. There's a time and a place for everything, including us. We were meant to be planted side by side, and help each other flourish and thrive. But you must realize that the falling of petals is inevitable. You can try over and over again to paint our lackluster leaves with the colors of the marigolds, but it seemed that there was just one too many rainy days where the clouds covered up the sun, and I knew in my roots that our time in the garden had ended. We've lost each other amidst the changing of seasons, busy searching for the greener patches in life. They say to bloom where you're planted, and that I did. I hope you never forget whose roots you first intertwined with.

Body on the shower floor,
I’m bathing in my own tears.

Water drips, heart skips
I cleanse and cleanse,
yet I never feel clean.

I am a flower drooping in the soil,
a wet leaf clinging to a shoe.

I never knew why grey skies
became my favorite, until I realized
that when rain drops fall
I am no longer crying alone.

I love the way your voice sounds at night.
Raspy whispers of the drunken moon.
Asking for the slow and stale
out of bed kisses.
I reach for your lips,
picking up the tastes
of all the dreams we never got around to.
Connecting the dots on your skin,
Little Dipper on your back.
Scars are slowly turning into stars,
and I’m realizing that healing
is easier to do in the dark.

I can’t unwrap myself
from your finger,
heartstrings thinning
as my clutch tightens

I’m afraid that if I let go,
even just a little,
the wind will blow
and like dandelions
dancing in the sky,
I will never be able
to find my way back to you.

Back to the place
I fell in love,
while still learning
to love myself.

Back to safety,
where nothing could touch me
other than your fingers of sin.

I’m starting to forget
the sound of your steps,
and everyday I hope
that I’ll soon be reminded.
But I’m slowly realizing that hearing “I miss you”
doesn’t always mean they’re coming back.

seasons come and go, just as you have. i dig my nails into my sweat stained palms every time I wonder if the July heat was just too much for us to handle. The sun is starting to set earlier with everyday that passes, and I can’t help but realize that we’re fading away alongside the beauty of summer.

// there’s nothing i can do to stop it //