to crumble up
the remnant pieces
of my love for you
and throw them in the trash
but I'm such a bad shot.
We see different starsWe see different stars
While yours shine throughout
the darkness of your night,
light the way into your sky,
and hold your wishes til
they finally come true,
mine reflect in the murky filth
from which they can be seen
acting as disgusting mirrors
into a world which cannot be mine
Unsaid truths and spoken hateunsaid truths and spoken hate
will forever be how I remember you.
I won't remember your petite
and deliciously sweet smile.
I won't remember the nervous way
you'd embrace me
as though my open arms
might be retracted at any moment.
I won't remember your kindness
wrought from a belief you deserved
none of what life had been willing
to bless upon you.
I won't remember how I nearly loved
every little part of you
from your crooked smirk
to your large hands
molded perfectly to fit in mine.
I will remember your cowardice
your fear of the possibility of my love.
I will remember your lies
whispered sweetly to me
in that empty library
of how you thought
we could last together.
I will remember all the embittered
and loving words
which choked me as you forced
This isn't the type of love that deserves poetryThis isn't the type of love
that deserves poetry,
born out of an inability
to survive alone,
born from a necessity
to believe in a lie
I'll continue to whisper
in your ear each night.
"I'll protect you"...
A lie neither of us believe
and neither of us dispute
for fear of losing our only tether
to this decrepit existence
that we both fear so much...
this love isn't romantic
nor is it confrontational
its not comforting
nor is it disturbing,
It's merely there
sinking beside us
in the sea of life ,
that's gently drowning us,
we can almost breathe.
I've No Talent For HappinessI've no talent for happiness
My smiles are frail at best
And though I try to remember
A time when I felt truly blessed
And no matter how I try
There are always times
When I can't help but cry,
Though even as they fall
I try to cradle the tears
To see if I can find
Happiness beneath the fears
In these delicate crystals
Of hopeless memories...
But I've no talent for happiness
My heart never wholly mends
And though I dove so far
Dove until I reached the end
Of that vat of tears and miseries
I found only
More tears left to cry...
I've no talent for happiness
My soul cries endless seas
In which I try to drown
Myself and my memories,
But I think I once had it
The bliss you call happiness
And every now and then
I feel it
Rise to greet you
And attempt to shine
From beneath my tears
So that you may know the truth
Of how you make me feel.
So I've no talent for happiness
My memories sometimes choke me
My hearts never wholly mends
I'm sorry I never loved youI'm sorry
I'm sure you want
that to mean alot of things
but in truth it means one
I'm sorry I never loved you
not in the way
you would've wanted me to
not in the way you needed me to,
I'm sorry I loved the ideal
of you and me
the wonderful beauty that
be birthed from our attractions
more than I loved the person
within that fantasy.
I'm sorry I forced
the delusion of perfection
upon you and held
you to those
of my selfish imagination.
I'm sorry that I placed
the necessity of us
above the desires of you.
that I wasn't the guy you deserved
and that I wasted my few chances
with someone as wonderful as you.
I'm sorry I never loved you
till you were already gone.
I am a turtleI am a turtle
with the waters of hope
to keep me alive
and hardened to the touch
to protect a soft core.
I am a turtle
wrinkled, wrangled and dry
with a home on my back
and the world before my eyes
slowly growing nearer.
And he saw the moon.Hidden away
from his heart and home
and after his tears
had been stolen away ,
he looked up to sky
and saw the moon.
He wondered what this radiance
that still shined upon him
was, for even the sun
had forsaken him
and he blessed it
and deemed it his savior.
from love and light
and after his hope
had been stolen away,
he looked up
and saw the moon.
And each night he prayed
to its light's benevolence
and would place a chair
beneath it and reach
he was closer to its kindness.
from his wonder and worry
and after his care
had been stolen away ,
he looked up to sky
and saw the moon.
And he began to believe
and his belief cemented til
he began to know
there was no light<
A Love I Can't EscapeFor you I bathe
in horribly wonderful decadence
that envelops me
crushing and choking me
beneath my own ambiguity
I haven't the heart
to hold to the utter
which I've come to feel for you
and it fears its own inability
to encompass such disgusting purity.
I want you
more than I'm willing to understand
and more than I'm willing to accept
still call to me
with such horrifying allure
that I can't help but approach
the cliff which I'm sure
will be my downfall
however perhaps if I gained you
in the fall
I might not mind.
ViolinI remember the day
you told me violins
were strung with cat gut
and that is why
you hated music
(who says that to a child?)
I followed you
all that summer.
I watched you
grow away from mother -
your whiskey held better conversations
and all she did was cry.
We'd sit cross-legged on the porch
and count the horseflies
settling on our lunch.
You would drown tadpoles
in a bucket
surprised they could not swim
and I would dream
of cherry popsicles.
And when night would gather
on the sidewalk
I'd hold my breath
until a star appeared.
Don't bother making wishes
you'd tell me -
stars are dead weight in heaven
and God has cloth ears.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
SolaceShe never slept well in the dark,
not without the children of the sun and moon
to guide her weary lids home.
Guided by the aftermath, she was always two steps behind.
What did the world look like to the girl who had been through it all?
Braved the heaviest of storms,
yet skipping over cracks in the pavement.
They said her eyes were the wisps of clouds before the storm.
To him they were reflections of pages overlooked.
She said it was like she lived the life of someone she had never met.
Laid out to dry, yesterdays news.
He knew her as the girl who was built to never collapse.
He wished he was too.
He loved her more than words could say, and yet her pain was such,
that at times, he feared she wouldn’t make it.
But on nights like these, even when it threatened to consume her,
he became convinced that somehow she would.
Blank EntryInspector Andel removed her contact screens and allowed herself a small sigh of nostalgia. She had borrowed a tablet from the archives department, and now weathered hands were flicking their way through cold case files. Hand-typed files. She'd almost forgotten that she used to deliver reports just like these.
"It's not the 20s any more, Andel. We don't use tablets."
Andel had been too absorbed to notice Dieter sneaking up on her until the overbearing git had pulled up a chair opposite. Dieter was tall, young, charismatic, and by all accounts was everything Andel was not.
"Cold cases," she said, with a lot less venom than she had intended, "It's the only way to view the reports."
Dieter leaned back and propped his feet up on her desk. "Ah yes, cold cases. Well I suppose you have to do something while your officers are out with the response teams."
She ignored the feet bouncing obtrusively at her. It was too late to say anything now – she had to pretend they never bothered h
Cyclical loveI see a beginning and an end
clasped within the lines of your palms, echoing
in the ripples of your irises;
I remember the apricot april morning
stumbling over your outstretched legs
in the park which I had never seen as
anything more than a cut-through, but
my life changed course and the park
became a destination and I still don’t know
when I noticed that I was waking up
twenty minutes earlier just to
talk to you before work, just to hear
your lilting voice flow through my ears and
fill my mouth with ideas;
And I remember the dew drops kissing my feet
when you convinced me that it was practically illegal
to wear shoes in june and I watched as
the grass pressed hatched patterns into your skin
and for a moment I wished that they were my fingers
holding you in eternal summer lawns, swan choruses,
whirring rollerskates, the smell of peach blossoms;
And I remember you blooming and shedding
the remnants of your cocoon as you pointed out
made-up constellations littering a swelling augu
FloodgatesWe’re lined up as we enter Year Seven.
Rulers are pulled out, skirts inspected. Three inches above the knee, no more.
Our skirts are millimeters too short. We hope to pass. If we pass, we’re allowed into the house. Those who don’t are sent home so their mothers can mend what’s broken.
They scour for torn hems, loose stitches, and find none. But Marissa filled out over the summer, and the back of her skirt rises up her thigh nearly an inch above an appropriate level. We share a knowing glance as she flows out of our line, thrust back into the office where someone will call her mother to gather her. Our mothers taught us to lean back when the ruler passed, to let the hem dip down to the creases of our knees. No one would know. When we pass, we share a silent victory.
When they can’t hear us, we whisper about Marissa’s chest, how red splotches cover her nose and cheekbones. We think she won’t come back, girls like her never do, and seventh years a
My Pillow Can't Hug MeMy Pillow Can't Hug Me
It's been...6 months.
Since I've been enveloped in any embrace.
I kiss my mother
every morning of every day
on her right temple.
It's a ritual I started at 13.
That's 1,318 days, today.
And starting then, a shift arose.
I've never been overly affectionate,
but as I get older,
the more skin aches from no touch.
Loneliness beating me down
like the sun stifling withering petals,
their descent nearly as gorgeous
as when it flourished.
Malnourished, I lie down on this bed,
as the only thing being fed is the lead
in my eyelids.
Leading me to the only thing here
that has consistently be there.
And its slumber.
But she doesn't like answering calls
when there's light out.
All I WantI want someone to talk to
it may not sound like much
but its all I want of you
I want to never be alone
to never be forced to hear
the silent creaks of my home
I want someone to share with me
to give me the pieces of their day
through tiny conversations, and hearty stories
till there's nothing left to say
I want someone to stay with me
on those many cold nights
when the only thing that can keep me warm
are their sweet whispered delights
I want someone
it hardly matters who
to stick with me
and stay with me through
the transgressions of my days
the weaknesses of my soul
and share the same with me
make me feel whole
I want to someone to talk to
someone's whose hand I can clutch
All I want is a true friend
Surely that isn't too much
A message to the brokenYou drown yourself
in liquid sorrows,
letting the salty mess
burn your wounds,
and the sadness
to drip in your mouth,
consuming your words
and you say
you deserve the pain,
but I want to dry your face,
and whisper in your ear
how the clouds cry too,
while they hold such beauty,
and so do you.
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
The Son, the Father, and Whatever is HolyDo you ever stop to think about those
Old, old stories bound in myriad cantos?
The kind that are all in iambs and Latin
Or Italian – the language of a world in the grip
Of a renaissance that is seeping drip by drip
Into a darkened age, like so much lantern oil.
I do, but for purely selfish reasons –
I think of them as balm for lesions
That keep popping up in my mind.
Lesions, mind you, that are not literal –
They are but the inlets in the littoral
Region of my morbid thoughts.
When the inlets get flooded, I build leather
Boats to keep myself afloat. Whether
I construct them well is up to interpretation.
I cling to the old stories in cadent verse –
When I am particularly low I rehearse
Them aloud – as my mode of survival.
He never understood that, though –
He never really could, and no
Matter how I tried, it was no use.
He didn’t see that for me finishing
The rhyme kept me from diminishing
Into slow-burning insanity.
It hurts me more than him, t
All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.
I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.
At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.
I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
MaaheWhen the Maaheseum wore off, Onteia knew she was close to death. Her hair had gone white, her eyes were sunken and glassy, her flesh had receded. Those in her pod were the same: decrepit old men and women, none of them older than twenty-five. Outside, the blueshift had pushed every black hole, every brown dwarf, every burst of cosmic radiation from every pulsar in the Galactic Center into visibility. In hyperspace, even someone who never saw the shining beauty brought out by Maaheseum could see what lay beyond the cursory glance that was their lifelong perspective.
The pod was nearing its final destination--the spectacular, unmatched glory of a collapsing star. This was what all Travelers longed to see before their inevitable early death from the drug. Onteia reached into the small container at the center of their pod, where there were enough green-tinted black shards to last a hundred Travelers a decade. She took a piece just over an inch long, and set it on her decaying molars, and b
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
It's hot in my apartment even if you're not hereWhy do I wake up,
halfway drowning in sweat and rattling thoughts
about who you could be,
candles in my room down to their wicks end,
and me just laying in bed for a few hours.
the worst part is that you're not ignoring me.
I could call you up,
lasso a conversation like we never left our last one
tell you I love you like always
but it's worse
because you would only ever be half there.
I could never have all of you,
could never take the full moon for what it is.
so why do I try to sleep,
with a wild hare up my ass
about what could have been of us,
candles burning brighter and hotter
than all of the solar system,
drowning in perspiration
when I know I'll just lay in bed for hours.
Short PoemHer eyes return my gaze,
A gentle “Hello” at first glance.
Those chocolate brown coloured eyes,
So full of love and compassion.
Without a sound from my lips,
A solitary cry escapes.
Her serene marble-like stare,