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?
Penning AutumnFolded between the pages of booksyou bound our spineswhere the dandelions grow--the anxious poetry of autumn.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Swallowing MidnightThe sun will never shineunder the bedwhere you found love...but there is still timeto swallow the stars.
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.
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.
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
We Traded Our Hearts for StarsFor every boy I ever kissed,the trembling of her lips matches yours.(Poet, breathe now.)I should write this down,the last piece I ever write about you.You’ve been gone findingconstellations, ambitions, and things in between,and this is me being brave,dancing on the fire escape.(I wore you like a bruise.)
Shy TruthsI spilled a cup of oceanand opened my handshoping to catch the truth.Empty seashells,broken clams,and a palm-fullof worn pebbleswere all I caught.I guessthe truthis shy.
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.
Flight lessons.These skies are breaking, butI can teach you to fly --here in this moment,an instant of us onthe far-flung horizon.
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.
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
indulgencei will peel away every individual shade of colourin this seven-thirty pm skylike stickers on empty beer bottles in the spacebetween your anklesi will drink down this crescent moon cocktailand get tipsy on night air,clinging to my skin and summerwill run through my veins(quick-stepped, hurryingbut i don't want winter to come)and sometimes i'll look down and realise that my fingers are still sticky with sunsetsbut i never want to be clean,not ever again.
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
Shooting the moonhe will have cause to regretconfession,becausethere will always be rivers,the black seanebulouswith disease;astronomer's insomnia (a sea-fireconstellation)and midnightnecromancy (stargazingthe underside of bones...)
desperate to connectwinter was never my favorite season -here's the truth about december:stars fade to blue,and constellations, ambitions, and things in between(now dreaming of the simple things that gently touch the world near my feet)lie down in somber sleep, here under the north star.winter was never my favorite season -this is about forgetting how to move mountains.december silence hangs from the rafters in the skyin a city of orphans with winter wanderlust(of the girl teaching herself to fly, the hospital bird with soot in her lungs)where folded, between the pages of books, the dandelions [never] grow.winter was never my favorite season -i hear no echo of my footsteps after the ice has melted.to the girl with ghost hands who held the moon with a string [myself],there is a song for this between night and day(at the most peculiar of places - a nonexistent heart)where happiness lies, and i can [hear the] whisper,"this is me being brave"
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.
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
NotchesThere is a tree as old as me inthe midnight garden. There’s no sound but the windand fingerprints of raindrumming a thousand dreamsagainst my window.My hair is growing long.I left myself behindon the growth chart carved into each notch of the trunk,leaving just a memoryrunning through April avenue.
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.