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.
Hanging SkeletonsDo not talk aboutthe skeletonshanging in your closet--bones bleachedwith wishesand mistakesare nothing to be afraid of.Prop open the doorand talk to them--you'll findthe answers you seekin their silence.
Space BlanketsPurple cloudsdraped over crescent hips--bashful twin moons.
Gypsy WindA gypsy at heart,I weave colored feathersinto the braid of my hair,my fingersas deftand nimbleas my tonguewith goodbyes.I lovelike the wind--at timesgentle with murmurs,otherscutting with howls.I always leavewith no warning.
Stitching SeamsI've been stitchingpieces of myself together for years,trying to make me whole.The trouble is,I don't remember how to sewand sometimes,my hands shake so badlyI lose bits of myselfaround town,a breadcrumb trailto the hidden me.If you find a piece,study it.Put it in your pocket.Forget about it.Maybe,when you finally rememberthe misshapen objectyou picked up,I'll be readyto face myself as a whole.Right now,I'm too afraidof the unknown spaces--the things I hidefrom even myself--to tie my stitches off.
Secret AbyssHold me.These thin cloud veilswill hide our dark secrets;don't think about those skeletons.Let go.Believe--I'll help you upif it means dragging you.Promise me you won't let the pastchange you?Forgiveall my mistakes--years from now, you won't carethat you shared yourself with a fool.Change me?ForgetI pushed you downto get what I wanted.I never put my heart intoyour hands.Let go.Those skeletons willbe our last. Don't think mydark secrets can be forgiven.Push me.
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.
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.
Jean Pocket WeaponsYou hoard your emotions like weaponsin the pockets of your jeans,pulling them out and dusting them offwhen it suits you, when it's convenient,when you're trapped between a rockand a hard decision and you need an excuse to run...but I wonder if you realize you're only running from yourself.
mutterings from over the cuckoo's nesti.it is dark. thatis a judgment. my roommateis snoring, and somewhere,a girl is crying becauseshe doesn't have a heartso she doesn't havea home. if we are time bombs,I think I must have detonateda little late. it is darkand I can't seewhy all problems are definedbut their need to be solved.I dream in color, but I livein black and white. I drownin gray faces that don'tsound familiar; it is darkand I can't rememberthe last time it was bright.ii.I am afraidof caring. we are a strangepeople, we, who love byhating ourselves, by bleedingout anythinggood. Iam afraid thatone day, I might start crying,and I won't be able to stop andit will be the second Great Flood,all the world will drown inmy mistakes. Youdraw that out of me,like a marionette ona string, you pull theseanchors out frommy stomach until Ican hardly breathe. youlive on the other half of the mirror,andI am afraidthat distance is toowide.iii.maybe,in the end,it's all the same. everyhap
something lacking this way comesshe smells of smoke, tastesof cheap dreams and cheaper makeup,sounds like someone who's usedto giving; her eyes are twoglossy sunsets out of a fewtrillion that have set before--when she shuts them, no oneblinks.
Vertebraewe dressed oursalt burns;purloined ribbons& bone crownsspitting static throughour buzzing t.v. teethyou're a silent migraine:blue-blooded, honey-soaked[& i want to be somethingtoo pristine totouch]
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
NetherThe world unfurls:becomes a gemstone, sinkinga mirror breakinga thousand splintering realitiesand I am lost —forgotten who I ever was,forgotten how to breathe.
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
LiliyaBright-eyed,bird-bonedwhisper girl;dark-dressed,moon-backedmistress of light.
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
Cliches I Have Datedi.Anna collected stardustlike pennies, exceptpennies are worth something.ii.Claire had inkrunning through her veins; dead,from an unsterilized needle.iii.Robin had birdbonesstrung together on windchimes.iv.Sarah’s eyes were alwaysto the sky, and neveron me.v.Lizbeth took my breath awaywith every punch to the stomach.vi.Rosalie had too many thingsin her ribcage; emotional adrenalinetriggered her arrhythmia.vii.Emily left mefor a boy with starrier freckles.viii.I am one cat awayfrom a stereotype, or one girlcloser to a happy ending.
.she wants to taste the moonbetween forefinger and thumb sheplucks it from the sky, and likesome great pearly gobstopperrolls it over her tongue,licks the dust from herlips,shuts her eyesand smiles
Floored PetalsHe drowned the cheap motel roomin smoke, back in ‘53,when I was just a bud of seventeenwho had watched herself bloomin the mirror in her mother’s closet.I had seen the bloom and the budand had wished to be deflowered.So I had leashed myselfonto the back of a busand roared into New York Citylike the little dragonfly I am,falling into deep dreamson the laps of strange men.A pale girl with a patched-up suitcaseoff on an adventure in the citywith nothing but a few dollarsand a fear of the dark.The hotels were mustyand the dollars digested,but the lights loweredas the jazz flew upwardinto a shower of sparks,and I, a flower shaking off her petalsas she swung into his armsand into his life.A life of roads and roaring,and sitting half-still in the smokeas he mused long into the nightand down the drain, saying,“Poetry is daydreaming on paper,”wiping his grey lips on discarded poems, andcrashing between the waves of sheets.A life of racing
we're legal murderers.how to love a writer:don't. because we will turn your passioninto works of extended metaphors for death and decay,slipping you scarsserved sunny-side-up because, hey, we all want to befixed, right?not writers. writers want someone, anyone (usually the wrong one, because pain sells more thansmiles)to try and pour cement into the dents inside themuntil they realize that they're really justabandoned sidewalks located in the wrong side of townthat cannot be repaired. that is what we do.we break peoplefor a living.
UndedicatediI wrote you a poem.skeleton smile-- moonbeamsdrip from your unharnessedhabilitations; you speak andravens tear through your throat(I will be there) you area catalyst whose ghost eyesdied for a better dayiiunaware promise bearer, takeme away. as you live thesebeautiful vanities, take meawaysomewhere refined and romanticlike the lies you languish, wherea heavy heart weighs up tosomething niceiiiprimed and pruned, I ama seedling: an exaltation toall that is youwe both cry the same kindof quiet, and whisper the same brandof please-don’t-listen-close; Ijust want to leave before I breakwhen you [do it first] decide there isa life worth more than the scarsI bear (though I mostly want to askdoes it ever go away?)ivchurning repetitions of anunmentioned time, I carry youwithin my mouth; tucked away andslowly disintegrating the thingsI barely speak:(you saw more of me than either of uscould admit) the time for letting gohas passed me by
don't trust me unhinged like a stolen surge of ocean, I become what your girlfriend thinks I am: drinking alone, forgetting your name until it flowers from my blackberry throat I wash my tangled hair in your kitchen sink, malingering
To My Biology TextbookOn page 159 of my biology textbook, it reads,“...cancer is the uncontrolled growth of cells”as though that could explain everything,and I thought it did for a time.But my textbook never warned methat his skin would paleto a point where I could seethe blue freight trainscarrying eighteen pillsthroughout his frail body.My textbook never warned methat his watery irises would freeze over,that he would hurl insults like knives,and that he would clench his jawas tightly as his fist clenched his wine glassbecause the only person to blame is himself,and he can’t swallow that as easilyas he can the olives in his martinis.And my textbook never warned methat it would be this difficult to breathebecause of my acute awarenessthat his breaths are limited,and that there would be nothing I could dobut soldier on searching for that silver liningclinging to these foreboding thunderheads.
HeartBrokenMy heart isAnd in shredsI'll forever leave itSo it can't be brokenEver again
shooting starThe space betweeneach star is a tragedywaiting to happen --and you fallfrom the skyall too easily.
p-o-e-t is but four letters.I'm not a poet.I am aIbiologist:dissecting lifeand reconstructing the deconstructedinto impossible architecture,extracting the right chromosomes,inserting into paper plasmids:linguistic engineering.IIdancer:In a tango of typographywords will flowto the beat of pens,stomp of the keyboard,typewriter's applause.IIIsacrifice:watch as I take my blades of inkand bleed the truthinto the cosmic bathtub,muddy the water in melodrama,trap the world in a vermilion spiraldrifting downwards in blank verse.IVcreator:I doodle imageryin the sketches of complexity,paint universes in abrush dripped in metaphors,simile-based watercolour dripping off notebooksin tears, laughter and literature.VYou can't contain this dance in one word.
Today, I am DrowningSome days,the pastweighs nothing--snowflakesfloatingin a tiny glass globewaitingto be carried awayon the wind.Other days,the pastbreathes with the sea--kelptangling about my anklesbeneathturbulent waves.