i lie facedown on the train tracks.
the gravel presses symbols into my skin,
but none of them translate.

home is a concept with too many rooms.
i sharpened my alibi
on my mother’s brittle bones
until it fit into a quieter mouth.
she didn't flinch.

the sun unthreads me one fiber at a time.
nothing resists.
blink
blink
blink
each time, the world returns
slightly rearranged—
trees on the ceiling,
windows in my stomach.

i found a way out,
but it only leads back here.
the platform loops
in the shape of an open jaw.
i circled it three times,
then laid down between its metal teeth—
the world doesn’t bite anymore.
it just holds me.

small, warm,
still breathing.
regret nests in the hinge of my jaw.
i keep it clenched, and
it doesn’t protest.
it flicks the lights off
when the rail begins to sing.
it knows the schedule better than i do.

the daylight plucks at my ribs like harp strings.
each note sounds like a name i was never meant to hold.
i buried the moon weeks ago.
she made it difficult to leave.
if you’re still listening—
the train is already halfway through me.

today,
i let the mouth stay open.
maybe the scream will crawl back in.
maybe it never left.

He's everywhere. You can't escape the grasp he has around your entire being.

He's in the last boquet of flowers he gave you which have been sitting on your desk for months. They're about ten shades darker from the first time you set eyes on them. There are fewer petals and they're much more fragile than your mothers fine china.

He's in the last drop of ink of your favorite pen which hasn't been used since the time you wrote about how much he meant to you.

He's in that T-shirt that he left crumpled on the floor in the corner of your bedroom that's stained with your mascara from that time you cried so hard you couldn't breathe. He stayed to try to comfort you, but the night ended with your bare skin whispering, "please don't leave" as his said, "I can't stay for long."

He's in the echo that rings through your ears every time the door slams shut. But it's not the sound of the door that unthreads your heart little by little, it's his voice repeating "goodbye, I'll see you soon." over and over again.

His presence is everywhere, although he isn't physically there. It's not like he ever really was. You sit there and wonder how someone you thought was so beautiful, could have left you with someone so ugly. Heartache and hope. You hope that maybe he'll come back, but you know that he isn't. He was never planning on coming back. All that you have left is the ghost of him, or who you thought he was.



                               B.S.

Bones threaded with silence,
a weft of unseen tides,
drowned before the sky could murmur,
names twisted into half-light.

Empty calls carve through marrow,
a dissonance stitched in the flicker
of unspoken skies,
twisting where shadows breathe.

Flesh frays in the void of mouths
that never opened—
rusted hums too thin to grasp.

Skin unthreads,
and what remains burns in the air
like a scream that cannot form.

Dust to dust—
the thread severed
in half-thoughts,
too distant to bleed,
too numb to remember.

Yes I have fears, yes they’re derived from my past. But I’ve become so empathetic with my fears so they are present but they don’t consume me or alter my feelings. I fear vulnerability, I fear pain, I fear loneliness, I fear you and the power that comes when you feel so deeply for someone. But my fear of not taking that risk is even worse. I fear losing out on feeling like every inch of me unthreads when you kiss me or touch. I fear days without you. I fear not hearing your voice. I fear losing out on the love that could be exchanged between us and fear the leap of faith I’m taking but I fear most staying stagnant and watching love pass me by on the other side so I will like you because of my fears but I will also love you despite all the other fears.

once, you were small enough to fit inside a whisper,
bones soft as moonlight,
fingers curled like question marks.
the world was too big to hold, so you clung to a name,
wrapped it around you like a second skin.

but nothing stays.

you learned that when your voice stretched,
when your laughter cracked open,
when the mirror started asking questions you couldn’t answer.

your hands,
look at them now
no longer tiny, no longer trembling,
big enough to shield your own eyes,
big enough to wipe your own tears.

the caterpillar never asks why it must split apart,
why the body it knew becomes a coffin,
why change feels like dying before it feels like flight.
but still, it unthreads itself into something else.
still, it breaks to become.

you will not be who you were yesterday.
you will not be who you are tomorrow.
but somewhere between the unraveling,
somewhere in the spaces left behind,
a pair of wings are forming.

The bubbles when I wash your hair
Look like stars caught soft in air.
Tiny galaxies in my hand,
While time forgets to make a stand.

Your smile — oh, it breaks my chest,
Kinder than hope, better than rest.
Sweeter than chocolate, bold like ***,
It strikes my heart and leaves me dumb.

To kiss you feels just like a storm,
Electric, wild, and far from norm.
To miss you — waves that never sleep,
They drag me down, they cut too deep.

And when I think you choose to lay with that one
Whose breath you feel beneath our sun…
It kills me slow, hurts more than I let it seem,
Unthreads my mind at every seam.

But then — you say you still love me,
And stars collapse in ecstasy.
I shine more bright than burning skies,
More hopeful than a priest who cries.

More in love than all the poets knew,
Each verse I write bleeds only you.
For though the pain may rise and run —
You make me brighter than the sun.