I don’t want to look up at the sky anymore
for it terrifies me
the stars have never been more than crumbs of the universe
laymen wish upon
and suddenly I find myself
tracing your eyes
nose
and the bottom of your chin
along constellations complex
crumbs that leave a path
tiny pieces of you
that lead me home

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you cannot shut the whole world off as
and when you please.
i was fifteen
my mother, forty-five, fighting
an incessant war with my headphones.
fewer words,
our days were outlined more with
slammed doors and dour glares,
conversations prisoned behind the fear
of exposing the soft-
ness in the way our hearts beat
or pumped blood
or ruptured
to spill over that   much    love. our hands
...

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everything that breaks

drowns me 

just enough to make me want to write about it

keeps me up for hours past midnight 

hours beyond the flickering street lamps would like to stay lit

how long will you guide the stray

i like words

i like the way they fall on paper 

it’s usually tears and aches near the chest 

that build a home for my words gone lost 

wandering, unclaimed...

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i was cotton yesterday 

today,

steel

see, i thought you were my magnet 

you’re 

gravity

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it’s 6:21 and when I look out my window from the corner of 29D, 

there’s a subtle hue of blood orange outlining what looks like the perimeter of 

a space

of sky

and a breeze of clouds, lighter than feathers, so thin, as if it forgot to carry the mist it was designed to pour tonight 

but that’s okay, because it found itself a new purpose:

your shrewd orange spirit is now perf...

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only poetry

can explain my 

coarsened hands made so unsteady

muffled heart beat - louder, heavy

trusting eyes fallen too quickly 

flaring skin

an impish grin

only poetry

and you

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a whiff of caffeine and cologne on your left collar, two cups of decaf 

and half a hug along the plane of our shoulders

       and we took off

with stolen glances at my pendant as red and radiant as the waking sun  

and the mole on the bottom right corner of my cheek, scaled to the size of a period that never surfaced in our conversations 

        our wings welcomed the wind li...

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will you write for me?

If I say your words can save me

if I say your art can heal me

will you try?

Will you draw for me?

If I pull my arm apart for you

trim my fingernails, hand a brush to you

should I try?

Where’s your masterpiece?

Empty canvas, left my chest open to you

plunged a needle inside, drained my blood for you

is it dry?

Where’s the lif...

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he says he can feel his heart getting covered with pink strawberry milk

he’s never had strawberry milk before

but he knows i like sucking on the fruit like a child does,

a popsicle

he says he’s falling

and cannot tell if this falling feels like that from a cliff into the oceans

or down a hole in the ground spiraling into nowhere and

everywhere

he hurts when t...

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