I watch you from afar
and my tongue longs to speak
the words I’ve been wanting
to say since the beginning.

My lips, your smile,
my cold hand and your warmth;
I watch you move and
everything in me stops.

& maybe you’re watching me too,
from afar. And maybe you construct
the same words, the same feelings..
the immortal poetry of our clandestinity.

The timeworn valley deafens us with hollow sighs and screams.
Its captives ensure to advertise a uniform and mundane beauty.
Look past the freezing air and glacial words, lest we forget it’s better than it seems.

The sunlight on the frosty grass blinds us as it gleams.
We keep ourselves safe inside with scalding chamomile tea.
The winter gods shower in gold as another devotee screams.

The red chariot regrettably careens
Into the gates of Hell, as much deserving are we.
In times like this, we tell ourselves, “It’s better than it seems.”

In a bubble filled with emperors, tsars and kings and queens,
A king may think of another king, “I wish I were he.”
Inside of all the royals, the captive stabs and claws, bites and shoots, and screams.

The regal slaves make love under the biting moonbeams,
Not frozen yet, and never to be.
The prohibition and clandestinity make it better than it seems.

We have all divided into designated teams.
When the clock strikes four, they issue the royal decree.
This place is a shelter for our screams,
Because nobody’s home is better than it seems.

i will carry this around until it kills me; ill let it teach me to be patient while she bares her teeth and snarls at me through the fog—thick and unnerving, sick and diseased in its attempted clandestinity. it stares at me with hollowed-out eyes and i suppress the pity filling my gut; i treat it like a newborn, like livestock, like slaughter. i admire the way its ribs protrude as it exhales; i compliment it on its drooping posture. it smiles up at me, teeth gleaming, heedless and giggling and soft in its membrane. it taunts me with love notes, stained carpet, a mess of pink plastic that presses me into the pavement and returns me to childhood; suddenly im ten and nothing is chasing me. i cover my body in bandaids; i wear my “tuesday” ****** on sunday and **** in my bedsheets.

in the midst of the whirlwind inside
that begat every jagged shard
of which the fragments—ever so carefully shattered—
remain the only reminiscent shadow of what once was
of your heart

that in spending time with you
come deafening bursts of menacing contemplation
bleak musings of pure despair
seemingly intent on dispiriting every bone in your flesh
absent a way to stifle blaring thoughts
amid such daunting solitude

one look in the mirror
paired with words of distaste—
for you seem never to pause for mutterings
other than that of repugnance—
a critic to your own, a belittler
to none other than self

that an unadorned you
bare, stripped down
i will know to love—
every sheer nook and cranny—
for who you are

the greatest terror
lies in digging deep inside of you
and what clandestinity it may reveal
for in my chiseling
a torment so immense will befall you
through which gales you ought to learn
the significance
of knowing how to hold your own hand
and walking you through such tempestuous bits
to learn to quiet your mind,
still your soul

for one does not simply stumble upon the
tranquil silence he yearns to be acquainted with
and the acceptance
he ever so wishfully aches for
but in the midst of such turbulence
i shall set out
to learn to love you
in spite of you