Burying HeartstringsConfessions of a misguided poet:this is me being brave,no echo of my footstepsafter the ice has melted.There is a song for this,but you've been gone findinghindsight.Borrowing the past,I leave my heart in Haitiwhere we should be.
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.
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?
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.
Treasure Map HeartsYou told mewe are fragile,a song to whisperunder the winter moon...but not all of this is true.Like a bad habit,I left my heart in Haiti.I did not say goodbye.
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.
Space BlanketsPurple cloudsdraped over crescent hips--bashful twin moons.
Jealous WatersPale twilightfrosted the waters;nymphs sigh, jealous of Pan.
Counting LightningA faint flush of bluecrowded by angry coals;the sky holds her breath.
Valley of the Butterfliesjesse,sometimes you have to let goof monsters and magic and gunsfrom the depthsof raven's garden,let the music fill the night;a river of timefor those slipping into the background,defense devil,let me fly like a birdfetching the summer ladyin the valley of the butterflies.
Dance backwards, darlingA confession: ma, there are seahorses dancing in the libraryAutumn has come to my hometown.Today; cool, clear and sunny--April, a stuttering fool.3am, and kings slumber;Sunday falls heavy,eyes wet with gasoline.
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.
Flight lessons.These skies are breaking, butI can teach you to fly --here in this moment,an instant of us onthe far-flung horizon.
Winter's WindowMisted palm printmelting ice spiderwebs,fingers framed by sunlight.
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.
NecromancyShe thinks there are nebulaein the rough of my gutter bones,some stargazing sanctuaryfor lonely outcasts to lay their heads.I am but a car crash,spellboundinside eyelids,& red inked correctionson crosshatched skin.Made up of moans,the clutching of bedsheets;I am contemplatingripping my ribs apart& provingI never had a heart at all.But my moon shy love;she is determinedto try & wake the dead.
Fragile--FFM Day 7Lindsey Stirling blared from my ear buds and I bobbed my head, furrowing my brow. My hand was shoved deep into my purse, searching for my keys. Instead, I found receipts from the Stone Age, a collection of seashells from last year's vacation, and enough pepper spray to blind at least twenty bears.Frustrated, I dumped my portable landfill on the welcome mat; lipstick tubes and loose change bounced across the wood and disappeared, lost beneath the porch. Spreading objects out with my hands, I sighed. No keys. "Damn it all to Hell and back ag--"Glancing up, the box near my door caught my eye. Wrapped with neon-colored paper, a large skull-and-crossbones bow held a handwritten "FRAGILE" note in place. The colors were garish, clashing with the ivory siding. Wrinkling my nose, I pulled the package toward me, keys forgotten. The paper was slick, slipping against the pads of my fingertips like silk. Examining the box, I flipped the "FRAGILE" note over--and gasped.Yanking the ear
Swallowing MidnightThe sun will never shineunder the bedwhere you found love...but there is still timeto swallow the stars.
To the lonely sea and the skyin the dim of twilightI feel immortalbut I feel blue;stardust and sun drenchedtorsoswatercolor painlike the desert misses the rainI remember you:a sky of smogcoasting on thin ice,limbs tangledaround thesextile sun and uranusbonesdustinsomnia on the silvermoonbut I am the wayward childand there's a hole in my soul,so please show meshow me what the stars look like tonight.
rock bottom, ocean floorhalf-past a different kind of brokenon sadness, she wrote: blind fool in the umbra bury yourself in me on the other side of lonely and by god, i love you (maybe i will be a landfill) everyone i meet looks for a place to stay;out of the woods, on wet roadsunder wind, under rain -i'm so far awayno wonder it took him 1455 pageswaiting for her to come this waytramps like us- in lieu of emptiness in absence of a poem wander, wander (pour a little salt, we were never here)your heart was a broken sailorfishing for hearts with lace and not netting;into the deep end of our storyi saw god leaving the shore
life, love, and all that jazzmy body is an accident;you've got blood on your hands(i think it's my own)and i'm learningthe world will only love youwhen you want to die -there are no easy ways to sayso this is goodbye;this is the last piecei ever write about you,or anyone.here's tothe things we leave behind,in the distance, fading(summer ends tomorrow) dear october,here's nine reasons why you shouldnever look over your shoulder;for once in my life, i knowthe truth about forever - it's in the little things.
In dreamsWrite your daydreams all over me;you cannot save me from my lifeor the things I am scared to say.Bedtime stories don't quite go this way.It's the little things that follow you to sleep -phantoms are thieves of nocturne skiesand insomnia burns our soulsto ashes
CovetI want his wingsand when I dieagain,the reality I chose to stay inwill make a memory of me.
the truth aboutwhat romance novels don't tell youabout love:beauty is the sweetest thingwhen I am twenty five,and you know you're in lovewhen he just waves goodbye.here is the truth:I am nothing more than thisthing that happened in bed(bury yourself in me, tucked between pages)heartache talks to me,the poet, porcelain fire,a collection of stained-glasssecretsI am a girlin love with a boybutvogue ispretty girls with infectioussmiles (anyone else but me)
That which we often fearIt’s no wonder I thought you were magic;there are monsters in your head the colour of death,apologetic blood and rattling bonesseeking the company of souls(do you taste like cyanide too?)
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
There Were Only StarsWrapped in piano strings,The stars whisper:Forgetting is everything.The days remain the same:Boxes of dead poetryWait for youIn the space betweenApproaches and departures.You fold paper for a living,Ghost writing forAn empty audience:Nothing is enough.
Penning AutumnFolded between the pages of booksyou bound our spineswhere the dandelions grow--the anxious poetry of autumn.