a water farmer on two seperate planes of existence
on the ocean floor, drinking sea water n writing lov lettrs
drifting into hockey head desire
i was born in a motel 6, and i wanted to b a power ranger
but blue power is frowned upon

exit coma and earnestly yours
all ears but no tongue to tell me yr boiler still won't work
patience is not a telescope i can see myself through
passed out on the floor of a concert hall, 3 broken bones n i'm coughin cherry wine
tylenol headaches make wine taste bettr
i am real. i do not feel safe.

i know how to deal with the wounds but i was never taught what to do with the blood
the meds may have chased away the monsters, but i'm not done playing dead

i want to die inside yr ***** bedsheets
my teenaged years were mapped by hoodie string nooses, crystals shards, and hands tightening about my throat
i am still finding pieces of you at the bottom of this beer bottle
don't call me at 4 in the morning to tell me you smoked ****
we don't need to talk about this now
even if i let every plant die and burned at the edges
i only miss yr dog

i was raised from a seed only knowing the taste of my own blood
belts planted in my thighs, back, my skin became the soil for bad intentions to sprout
gravity dissociates when shoes are airborne or at hand
i know you held down every animal slaughtered
that you were bred from the same seed, denied water and sun
but forgiveness isn't fine china, and i can't make it for you
bitemarks are the only thing i could defend myself with
yr fingerprints never faded from my collar
it dilutes with the passing of generations
but the meaning stays the same

holiness dissociates between my eyes
samurais with ptsd and human tendencies
are the closest to a lulluby during noon
between rib and flesh, the movement uncomfortable

she held me th way one kicks aside smeared bug, which is to say: gentle, unwilling, and all fearing
th tender pain she left to mold felt all weakness leave my body
her darkness was th light with which i navigated the puddles of beer and wet clothes, th very image of a god in utero
i was again, the bug, carcass and feeling all stuck
tethered to reality by trauma and th promise of survival
yet still
in very much th same way one flicks about th switches to lights that have lng since felt th soft burn of life give out, she asked if i loved her
to which i replied: i don't - i don't - i don't - i don't feel safe

I hate my poetry

Time is a witness
to the mark of the moth
in my hair, and I swear
the nights are getting longer

I keep putting it off
hoping I would discover
a star no one knew was there

and I can only wonder why
the bluebirds die
on the power lines singing

if god had a heart
he'd take me instead
and put a thirty ought six
straight through my chest

just for believing
that somewhere there's a nest
with my name on it.