Yearning

I’ll follow their sun,
grow and burn in their presence.
And I’ll still crave more.

It's always a bluff

Remember when you saw me?
Not with your eyes, 
you always looked away. 
I never quite understood why,
but given we're taught

love is blind

love at first sight

love is love

it's no fucking wonder 
I mistook another male gaze
for any sort of meaning. 

Remember when you touched me?
You lifted me up, grabbed 
onto some part of myself 
I was unaware of. 
You pulled me down, held
onto some part of myself
that I can't reclaim. 

butterfly kisses 

finger painted tattoos

plane tickets around the world

I think if I were to
pick apart all of my bones, 
sift cartilage from walls, 
strength from a sucker punched gut, 

I could find the "before."

I'm just not sure where I belong
or where I fit
or how to get out of my head
in the "after."

Write a poem about sadness.

It's been 225 days, 
and the same amount 
of lonely nights. 

I fantasize about you,

while I ride him. 
flirt with her. 
send a teasing text to a stranger. 

I'm not proud, but I'm 
weirdly grateful for this
broken heart of mine. 

This new bleak world I now see
ironically gives me hope. 
There's a certain strength built
only by suffering. 
It affords me a distance 
putting the control of, well, everything
back in the palms of my hands. 

It's been 225 days, 
I fantasize about you, 
and this new bleak world I now see 
might have just been reality all along. 

Write a poem about the ocean.

He told me I gave 99% to those around me, 
but in that remaining 1% I reserved for those worthy, 
the depth of my humanity could be found. 
When he left I retreated to those black waters, 
lights only serving as traps 'cause a girl's gotta eat. 
He eventually found his way to the sun, 
swimming through strata as fast as he could. 
He said he loved scuba diving, but 
he loved the view not the danger.

~

A voice like honey, 
a mere shadow of 
my siren call. 
I'll look at you
with stars in my eyes. 

I'm a trap, a promise,
a threat, a bluff. 
You'll follow my lure
through dark blue nights
across dive bars and
cheap guitars and 
conversations about the past. 

When you wake up
you'll drown in an ocean
of oxytocin and endorphins. 
Let it roll through you
in tides because babe...

I'll have you high 
from the pressure found 
in my depths. 
And my lows will reveal 
unknown wonders and 
horrors alike. 

Touch

I still dream about
your impish grin and how your 
fingertips grazed mine.

To All the Hearts I've Broken Before [Reprise]

I've been many things, but
I've never been yours. 

I come as I please, 
and it will
never 
happen 
a moment
sooner. 

I'll fall for you, land
on my knees for you, 
I'll give and you'll take 
and I'll let my heart bleed 
for you. 

But, this vessel wasn't made for
hand crafted and paid for 
your pleasure alone. 

I've lived ~

I.
Have.
Lived.

~ through seasons
and I cherish the 
nights ahead of me,
new love I know will be

because

when you drew me 
into winter you forgot. 

I'll chew my own foot off 
before I submit to a cage. 

I am sunshine, passion, 
and power, I can give life
and bear witness to flowers. 

I bow to the moon and
will remind them when they 
think it's too soon, to refrain
from taking me for granted. 

I am earth, the ground their
soul leans on, and they'll cherish
the gift and shared dreams from
vulnerable positions
in between sheets. 

I fell for you, waited
in the cold for you, 
but now I'll thaw
and welcome spring
for them. 

And on my way
I'll eat and I'll pray, and
love myself in the ways
you never could. 

And when I'm back
from that climb
because, darling, you
can be sure I never miss,
another summer will be
right around the corner. 

When he left

When he left, I cried, 

I was ten or eleven or theoretically 
too young to recognize loss. 
But I felt it. I knew its name. 
I inhaled and by the time I could
breathe again I sobbed and,
and they told me it would be alright. 

When he left my, oh my. 

I entered that match and
being a fighter, a survivor, a
sheer force of god damn will, 
I fought loss with loss. I grew
up with unavailable love, love
too tired, too busy, too demanding. 

When he left my heart, I moved. 

I didn't move on, I didn't learn
to accept that sometimes good
people make bad choices and 
bad people will find the ways to
pave the sidewalk cracks with poison. 
I gathered my bones, and I moved. 

When he left my heart leaked, with confusion. 

I wasn't prepared for the silence. 
For the first time my black hole
excavations went too far, too deep
into caves and caverns I wasn't
prepared for, trained for, armed for. 
I learned that ghosts were real. 

When he left my heart leaked through, into everything. 

Hell hath no fury like a heart scorned,
because believe me when I tell you
its tar suffocates all in its path. 
Sometimes he still visits, but its
... hollow. It's frankly just not the same. 

When he left my heart leaked through my, my words. 

I sharpened my tongue and spoke
truth to how lost he was to
how much he cost me to
how broken and ashamed 
and cautious he left me
unavailable to myself. Honestly,
I didn't even know that was possible. 

But. 

When he left my heart
leaked through my eyes, impaired my
vision of love, life. 

Midnight personified, my tired hero, 
he ruled over them all with 
soft words, masked by joyful tears. 
We found each other in the dark, 
two, unavailable hearts feeling
for what felt like the very first time. 

When he left, I cried. 

Friends are soulmates too.

He broke my heart but
they remind me to breathe and 
tell me to come home.

Acknowledgment

I...



I tried looking for you in a story.
In a recollection of hero worship
born from survival instincts and
sacred places where roads cross. 

Every time I thought I found you,
upon further inspection I realized
it was a hollow mirage, a shadow,
a faint recollection of memories. 



I always

I always 

I always l



I can't say it, I won't say it, 
it's not stored in my tongue.
It's too painful to see so I'll 
hide behind blinking I's, and 
I didn't hear from you which 
kind of smelled like bullshit. 

I looked in all the places that 
made sense but I'm tactile and
you brought poetry to my fingertips 
and God, if you're there, please
take back Cupid's recklessness.

All I want to write is I'm sorry. 
I'm sorry you experience pain. 
I'm sorry you experience longing.
I now know I would do anything, 
would risk anything, would survive
anything for you to be safe, happy.

All I want to write is thank you. 
Thank you for witnessing me. 
Thank you for not shying away. 
I now know what magic those
fingers of those writers knew 
deep down in their bones.

And I'm not entitled to anything, 
but regardless I have a request. 
I hide behind fingerprints, but
you hide behind shade, cloak
yourself in shadows and midnight.
Step out into the sun, trust that
the world will think you're nothing
other than stunning, gorgeous. 

And if you lose your way I'm right 
around the corner from moonlight. 
I've been mistaken for a star but
all us celestials have in common
are bones older than Time itself. 



I didn't know how 
to start this. 

And.

I don't know how 
to end it.

Betrayed by my own senses, 
if there was one thing I learned:

She was written like a salve.
He trekked the road to find her.

Leave No Trace

And as much as I
hate to admit to these things
you left your imprint. 

I thought "leave no trace"
could be the cure and the salve; 
I was so naive.

Now I welcome rain. 
Wounds cannot heal properly
until they are cleansed.

The Takeover

Cool, I'll just be over here trying to mop up my heart which is now a puddle on this dingy coffee shop floor.

THANKS.

APPRECIATE IT.

~ dial tone ~

Sorry, this is Brain.
Given Heart is out of commission, I'm taking over.
And using only the best logic,
the best is a grand overstatement,
I've been waiting for a moment to lead operations for a while now.

First and foremost, Heart is going to remain on leave for a while until the rest of the bits are sure it's actually learning from breaking repeatedly.

To All the Hearts I've Broken Before

I've been many things.

First,
Last,
Temporary.

A placeholder,
A threat,
An other.

I've been a salve and a soothsayer
~ Magic and Illusion ~
a luxury you cannot afford.

I've been many things.

But I've never been yours.

When They Call You a Mistake

The world is too cold
and sometimes I do not have
the fire I need. 

~~~

If only you can stop 
forest fires
do the evergreens
burn at your whim?

Why do we?

Why 

Do

we celebrate the healing
of an ember;
and fear the destruction
of a flame.

Midnight Personified

I was going to write a poem about bruises. 

About how we over estimate pain,
under appreciate healing and
somehow manage to lose sight that
scars tell stories across time. 

I wanted to start with their colors.
Swirls or imprints or or starbursts 
of tortured black, royal purple, blue
so warm it brings tears to your eyes. 

But the thing about bruises is, they're left behind. 

They're left behind until they're found,
at which point we choose to ice them out. 
Scars, those indelible fuckers, we'll 
welcome into our narratives. 
But bruises, they have no place beyond
a background character, a filler
until the moment resolves. 

I wanted to write you a poem about bruises,
but there was no more space on the page,
no more room in the air after scars were whispered.

So, instead, I settled for midnight. 
Midnight, a familiar comfort blanket,
dragged around and over the world. 
We all claim to know it, but we've
spent more time asleep in its presence
than we have awake.

When's the last time you searched for midnight
in a tale,
in a scene,
between lovers tangled in sheets
or giggles shared between friends
or that picture book, the one with
beautiful illustrations in between 
tucking everyone in for bed?
What was it, midnight moon?
Goodnight moon?

And if we're wishing the moon goodnight, 
shouldn't the middle be recognized?
The point of no return before the sun 
washes everything anew, yet again?
Before we lose sight of the stars,
visible against a deep black sky.
Or forget that nightmares and dreams alike
can feature purples so regal it 
literally takes our breath away.
Or ponder why we are comfortable
finally feeling so blue in the safety of darkness. 

I wrote a poem about bruises. 

I hid it in midnight, scattered lines
about trauma and healing,
nightmares and dreams,
blacks and purples and blues. 
I buried them like treasure
in places they would likely not be found. 

Because we leave our bruises behind. 

We carry the weight of our scars,
we'll bring our wars into new battles.

But.

We leave our bruises behind. 

The Opacity of It All

He asked how she could see,
how she peered into 
the truths of the world. 

She left the question to itself for

how do you explain sight?

Is it the process or the premise or

the content of potential and promise?

She'll claim she's as blind as the rest,

let inquires float through conversations. 

But she'll remember that once 

she felt the gossamer of the world,

That She's older than Laughter and Mirth,

younger than Creation and Chaos. 

That She's witnessed the world undone,

unmade, vulnerable, with curves that 

knew no pain, only patience. 

She'll say She has old bones but

Her cage is new, shapeshifting

from one lifetime to the next. 

New materials and scars,

each an improved attempt 

to dull the ache of knowing. 

Fate, forever Her faithful companion,

Her compass as She wanders, 

restless with the weight of it all,

keeps His eyes open for

Timing and Context, those tricksters,

always promise that they're 

right around the corner. 

So when he asks how she *sees*,

she'll hide behind pretty words,

behind wit and curiosity and affection,

because how can she ever explain 

the exhaustion of what she knows.

Passion

What's a blush if not
quiet affirmation that
you're under my skin. 

The Problem with Muses

Rarely is a muse 

An amusing thing.

They’re planes in the sky 

stretching in vain to become 

Shooting stars or the 

five impossible things 

we believe before breakfast. 

They’re deep wells, steady

Until you brush their surface,

Endless, until your lungs 

Become the buckets 

they needed 

for their own survival.

They’re nothing like what 

You expect them to be. 

Their radiant feathers? 

Stolen from the sun and 

the optic nerves and 

The truth of prisms. 

But the chemistry of pain 

Is two parts analogy 

One part metaphor 

And seventeen syllables 

Of economics, cost vs benefit. 

It’s poisonous, though.

Leaving you questioning

The means when it ends. 

When the ends are

Meaningless and 

They’re written like a salve 

A principle of gifting 

You hadn’t experienced yet, 

that defies the laws of physics. 

When they’re nothing like what 

You expect them to be 

their plumage humble, 

Gathered during nightfall

With consent from the 

Eyes of the forest. 

When their waters 

push and pull and 

Fill you with the slight

Sting of the ocean breeze

Their salts wanting nothing 

More than to keep you afloat.

When the moon returns 

From it’s trip around the earth

capable of so much more 

Than it’s given credit for, 

A Cheshire grin the sky… 

The sound of laughter 

Is so delicately placed 

Upon characters.

Soft consonants 

Become harder… 

Until it ends. 

When it began it was...

Two courts of the same coin, 

one a mask and the other

a cryptic invitation. 

"It's not quite the same, but I feel you so closely."

sometimes bruises look like tea leaves.

you're not quite sure what they're saying

but you know there's a story and a message 

and they're kind of like midnight 

swirls of blues and purples

that will evaporate, be forgotten

until the next time...

and given such a bad rap, but
they're just as much healing as they are pain

... and scars
scars are unsung heroes 

literally connective tissue that holds us together 

when we split open 

in chaos, they provide structure 

protein literally cross-linking 

and yet, despite their best efforts 

to fix what's broken and protect what's inside 

they wind up being less resistant than just leaning into chaos

and why is red so frightening
what about 

passion and intensity and anger
scares us when, without it,

we wouldn't understand blue 

and wouldn't have a frame of reference
for understanding cool distance.

and why do we think we can control yellow,

entranced by bright and happy and yet 

it's a sign of our bodies failing.

and don't get me started on poor brown 

on how the earth and tree trunks and 
the backgammon case from 

home once upon a time 

how brown is comfort and 
feels like manageable warmth.

sometimes bruises look like tea leaves.

and I wonder... why search anywhere else 

for signs, premonitions, or gods

when everything you need to know
can be found at the bottom of the bruises?

That's my line, don't steal it.

Stripped down to nothing 
But the depths of my being, 
I feel beautiful.