this is an alphabet of all the people
who have dug holes in me,
and of all the people
who are still digging.

this is a gardening guide
for would-be lovers and pretty faces
who do not even realize
that they are carrying shovels.

this is a weather forecast written
from past experience,
a reminder that winter
is not kind on crops,
no matter how firmly you pack the dirt.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds planted.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds left to die.

A,
i suppose it is fitting that the first letter
is also the first person to show me what it is like
to have seedlings sprouting up from inside you,
the first person to show me just how deep you really have to dig
to make the sting last.
you never came back to water what you planted.

H,
i’d like to say to that i ripped out your roots with my own two hands;
i’d like to give myself some credit in all this.
you don’t look as lovely as you used to.
you say i’ve grown distant.
i’m sorry.

J,
you always feel like being on the verge of something big.
you feel like summer, like a deep purple,
a bath of darkness.
you are everywhere that plants do not grow well.
and i have always felt — and still do feel — 
that that is such a grave injustice.
still, though you cannot speak the word “devotion,”
i beckon for more seeds.

P,
my greatest heartbreak.
heartbreak, though, is but a flesh wound when seen from afar.
and so i thank god for the miles between us.
i can feign forgetfulness when you are far away.
after all, what is a shovel in your hands if those hands cannot reach me?

S,
you are but a bud waiting to bloom.
and yet again i find myself so very afraid of growth.

(a.m.)

Let me tell you a story
Of the sun and the moon
Chasing each other in glory
and permanent gloom
Depending on one another
Trapped in an endless play
Illuminating the moon
Every single day
Never to discover
The importance of the other
Sharing the same physics
Theyre a perfect pair
And babe you should bare in mind
In my life, you're the light.

A peck of his lips filled with sin
     my labored breathing  
          his calloused hands wander my body
          exploring every inch of me
He holds my hand
      and steals my breath
           with a rope he found in the kitchen
Calloused hands wander over my body
     as he lay me with his ex lovers
          each more beautiful than  the next
          each more grave than the last
Beware of boys with blue eyes like sapphires dropping in the ocean

science tells you
growing into a woman
means a fuller chest and
hips just beginning to smile.
it's the new smell of blood.
it's thoughts fermenting
from grapes to wine.

art shows you
becoming a woman
is a series of quiet
revolutions.
a blessing to bear.
taking a little girl's hand.
leading her into
a great Somewhere.
wiping her tears
because she is afraid.

but logic and art are two
halves of one fruit.
we as humans are living proof.
with rational minds.
with paint on our hands.

so listen to yourself.

you will realize
becoming a woman
is a miracle.
a gift. a grace.
a poem dedicated to all
the little girls
and the women that screamed
for them.

Hello,
dear.

It's been awhile since I've last saw your scarred face,
those pockmarks etched across your skin
as you leered at me with those
hungry, greedy eyes.

It's been awhile since your words have affected me,
how they used to whisper in my ears
about all those little imperfections that scatter across my body like rainclouds on a sunny day-

But not everyone seems to hate rain.

Last night
After years you crossed my mind
Last night, like some past few times
I found your number and wrote a message
Hey, I hope you're well.
And lots of other things I would never say in the early hours of the morning
Last night, unlike the past few times
I pressed send
I wanted you to reply then
I waited wishing
And this morning I hoped you changed your number
This morning you're a can of worms I regret trying to open
I hope my attempts were unsuccessful