Digging up BonesYou left me nine weeks dueundressing poetry.Like a bad habit,I found you and I lost you. Who are you, again?Ghetto baby,poets should never make ghost children.
Counting Starfish to Fall AsleepI wonder if you wonderhow it goes,how it was, how it should beon Tuesday morningslostin the reefwhen the stars fade to blue.Drifting into five AM,half of myselfis listless--for you, for him.Uglyand voidand landlocked.Dear poetry:for what it's worthI am not your ocean girl.I am just trying to sleep.
Fragile Magpie MoonsIt's only spring when you first wake up,two magpies and the dull ache of menstrual crampstapping on. Death's windowsleeps in all our bones,a dripping water faucet.Brittle things--like love,marlboro midnights,a jar of not-quite-nothing--small and fragile and oursare the presences we carrywhile running from the moon.
Treading the HorizonA love story you don't wantpigeon stepsthe places we keep our hearts.Tonight, pretty girl,I'm not sorry for missing you.When the leaves whisper,I'll hire mourning doves.
Scorching SunsetWhen a poet's heart breaks,take a seat and shelter under my leaves.The best we can do is pretendthere is still timeto paint the world in wildfire.
Winter PoisonTo the boy with ghost hands:the best we can do is pretend.The breakers will always call us homebut you don't feel the poison--it drips, it dripslike a bad habit.We are fragile.Bury me in whiteunder the winter moon.
Dripping WordsSimple wisdomfor the girl teaching herself to fly--love is overrated,a super nova's roarcrackinga sliver of the galaxyon the edge of nowhere.Parched, starving,I am the Apocalypse.
Swallowing MidnightThe sun will never shineunder the bedwhere you found love...but there is still timeto swallow the stars.
Tell Me What You've Gone and Done NowIt seems like everybody writes about romance,the murmurs left behind,the lonely strength of men,the evolution of goodbye.There will be times when I tell you I can'tbe a number on a list.I was what you are, once--the dying star of a memory--but you must have mistaken mefor hindsight.I can bring your candle to glitter again,but I can't be your oxygen.Yes, my bed's a single--where did you sleep last night?
pollenwasp-waisted beautypray into my collarbonelet your snake tongue slitherwith the syllables.i wish for soft-chested nights,and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,nurse my coiling tongue with yours;tap my scalp like a silent drum,and wind my hair in between your fingerslike broken guitar strings.(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
Still Alivei am the moon,still alive;a painting in the sky,don't trust me,see, sins make us who we are;tangled fate 'neloquent dreams,everything ends-ends up in flames,a circuit board lovein cigarette cityremembering roses.
ZestSunset is early,a cast-off orange peelfloating on the lake.
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience inthe holy water of my wrists,I carve hearts from emptypaper for my galaxyboywith stars written in his skin,and I swallow moths tomuffle the emptiness andhelp me fly away.
Hinging TimeAutumn's diarydances in the breeze--pages ripped from barren branches.My father's father's bloodwas the same color, once--an angry, untamed flame.My own blood is an oil-spillchasing the metal of my joints--each move creaks.
Starving sleep and apologies.My sleep is starving.It is shivering sweat like snowacross my shoulders as I sob screamafter scream against your skin;"sorry, I'm so sorry,go back to sleep."I am sadand struggling to staytogether but you slumpagainst my sicknessand hold meanyway.
tencourage must be a dominant trait,for how else could you handle a pin-pulled grenadewith such delicacy and patience?
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universewhere your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair blackbecause I hated being a natural blue.I’ll teach you to play guitarand you’ll show me how to fly,scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,a tandem bike going nowhere.I’ll know you by the gentlenessof your fingertips and you’ll needno identifier but the slant of my handwriting,because, world to world, some things don’t change.
Within Temptationi am neither herenor there - just aforgotten fairytalehidden deep withina dangerous mind.it's the fear,somewhere in thetruth beneath the rose;& all i need arememories.see who i am -the deceiver of fools,pale & frozen,an ice queen.but i willstand my groundin our solemn hour,lost in ademon's fate.
hanging from the rafters in the skyclocks in a motel room;the years go by like one daywith these old photos in my hands.how do cities understand?that by skating on the edge of the worldwe carve north stars in Styrofoamon the edge of reality.we are all waiting to be foundwhen stars die. (i used to have a name)now i'm dreaming of the simple things,and i'm ready to fight my way.somebody told me: "i have loved the stars too fondly."between gray and goldthere are flaking photographs and shattered memories;the heartlines of drunken sinners chasing stars.cold hearted, you bound our spines. breathe. (and breathe out)it is not enough to know the colors of my soul,like a painting hung all wrong, orand unwanted diary.dreams catch in the lungs. let go, little bird. (but don't forget me)without you, my fickle muse,the city daydreams, desperate to connect withthe world near your feet.(lost wishes can be found in saltw
I was never a writer. I: Halfsleeper I fell in love, once.A snowstorm melting from my hair - dripping cataract: diluted coffee. A dark room filled with languageso beautiful, I almost understood what was said.Children are getting younger, and this land has no end, where do you rest your head?All things are in a constant state of vibration, a harmony in the space between our fingers. our hands. I’ve only ever stopped to listen
addicted to bad ideas.i've learned that we getaddicted to the idea more so than the drugs.
Letter to a loved one, on losing a loved one.I want to tell youthat this grief is temporary,that even if you feel lost,you are not a ship adriftwithout a crew.But darling, grief stillsits heavy on my tongue andI will not lie to you. [Grief gathers at the back of my mouth and renders me useless on days that feel like the day she died, my limbs heavy, my heart sore.]Instead I am going to tell youthat grief is not the last thingyou will ever feel;there will still berumpled sheets and lazy smiles,your fingers will still findmy naked waist beneath the blanketsand mine will still fit neatly betweenthe knobs of your spine.We will still drink too much coffee,smoke too many cigarettes, and love withurgency but not with haste.I will sit with your grief,as you have sat with mine andwe will be okay.
resurgencelet's make small talk,six month silence swelling;sticking inside our throats,filling the space between us.let's make small talkand skirt furtive eyes aroundthe absence we never quiteaccustomed ourselves to.this is easy,but then it's always beeneasy.we move lightly,flow smoothlyin synchronous;an oh-so similarfamiliar scene.let's make small talk,stumble on faux pas promisesand the intimacy between twowho are no longer intimate.orbiting the past,we dance in words.
philosophy has lost its appealYour absence isn't the elephant in the room;It’s the invisible parasites lounging in the floorboardsJust writhing for a taste of lonely flesh.My repaired left half is gone;Without you, I’m faulty once more:The half-blind broken wind-up doll is here again.There aren't words to describe the emptiness:just return soon.
4 haiku in parting.we left the gas station at 8.i could see all the candy lights,reds stuck in your dashboard,count the spots on your cheeks.you said you thought about me a lot.7 motes from your eyelashes,traded with a silver band on the carpet,then i waited for a late ride home.my stomach popped.outside became a violet,and while the windows were open,you rubbed my shoulder.
All I gave you was neglect.I am staring at your pictures, reading some heartbrokenand tough girl words that you post, and all Ican really say is that I love you and miss you;you ignore my messages, and I can't blame you whenall I gave you was neglect, but we weredifferent people then. Today, I'm a broken girl, too;really, I was yesterday, but I couldn't admit it yet, andnow that I can, I just want to remind you thatyour pain is not unique, not to make you feel bad,but just so that you can remember the love and devotionthat two girls with broken pieces form, andthat I love you. And miss you. I will trade conversationsfor snatched information from facebook statuses,but I will never accept that this is what we've become.
WhyI struggle to be real; it's something I have fought withfor a long time. I am always, always afraidthat my real thoughts, real opinions, real motivationswill be judged. I am always afraid. I live my lifein the shadow of doubts, some inherited, some self-invented, and I juggle thoughts behind what some callsparkling wit, and I refer to, cliché as it is, as a mask.I have thoughts that are locked in my head; I never reallylet them out, and not necessarily because I don't want to,but because my words are clumsy. They trip from my lips,stutter all conversation to a grinding halt, and so my thoughtsstay safely locked inside my head while they grindagainst my skull and ache my head. I do not have the adequatewords to talk about things; I do not know how toapproach the subject of how I watched your face drowningin kitchen linoleum tile while you waited for someone[but not just anyone] to save you and acknowledge your pain – but youwere trapped with a little girl w
Dreams: A Gateway DrugA grief-stricken moonset--burning clouds for the sake of silver linings--capturesthe secrets of fireflies.Under the bed,hindsightkeeps a close watchthrough the dark.