their kindness gave me mine

I have a small

theory that it is

the kindness you show

when it is hardest to

be kind that

saves you in

 

the end.

Advertisements

devils of the daylight

Regret pools in the places on my body where you

touched me last and flows down like a

river along the side of my

body that pressed itself to you when

your tears ran rampant and I am

still breathless from being

fooled by a human

nightmare.

the house where we live

There is a cobblestone path in the forests behind,

winding its way through the trees the same way you twist cherry stems between your fingers in the summertime,

and the walls are brick since you refused to live in anything more feeble than our own hearts and I smiled when you said it because I knew in fact that even brick could not compare to the strength in your chest,

and there is art on every wall and we keep saying we need to stop but we let our eyes wander through galleries and like children in need of candy we cannot bear to come home empty handed,

and we can be found on the couch in the living room, legs intertwined like the vines in our garden, our skin bathed in shades of gold from the sunshine, laughter ringing out through every room and corridor and I,

I do not know if we end up here but god I hope we do.

damages

I wonder where it is the line is drawn,
between loving someone when they need it – when they need you but cannot let you need them – and letting your love be
spent like money in a rich girl’s hands,
swallowed whole in one gasp,
threatening to leave you empty if you just give enough.

I wonder if you mean the words you say,
if they are the children of your secrets, spilling out between the masks you like to wear for fun.
Or if instead they are your particular breed of poison,
lingering on my skin with the promise to be fatal someday.

I wonder when you decided it was okay,
when busy became a reasonable excuse to leave me screaming,
when in my life I’ve only ever asked you for three days and yet two of them you have been too encompassed by yourself.

I wonder when it is I became nothing more than your sustenance,
your net to catch you if the moment comes when he lets you go,
and I wonder when it is I will become sick of this reductional role you’ve given me.

I wonder when you will be able to see through your own pain,
or rather when it is you will be willing.

I wonder when you will become my friend again and not a question I keep asking myself of how much damage my heart can take.

These are the things I wonder, anyway.

ghost of mine

It is funny the way the ghost of you follows me in everything I do.

I wander the aisles of grocery stores and pick out plastic packages of frozen mangos and I think about whether you would find it funny the way I explore the entirety of the store only to return to the things I know.

I sit and watch movies and pick them out from digital lineups and organize the pillows on my bed just right and I picture the way you would look if you sat there next to me, and the things you would say at the scenes I know you’d like, and the way it would feel to kiss you in the dark of the night.

I walk the streets in the morning and in the afternoons and I imagine the way my face would turn to yours and how the sound of our laughter would overflow the city, and how you would love the flowers and the rainbow colored crosswalks just as much as I.

You fit perfectly in every moment I know to exist, like a puzzle piece of my life I had never encountered but always knew was missing, like we were made to stand side by side and there was no version of reality in which I was not yours and you were not mine.

It is as if since I was twelve years old, I’ve been begging the world if only I could meet you.

letter to the consumer

In the age of information

overload, of ghosts with

flimsy paper power who

shovel cookie cutter thoughts

down our throats to keep us

busy,

I do not

desire to be

palatable,

I do not

ache to be

sweet on your

tongue -—

I want my

body to

burn as you

swallow,

so that you

cannot hear me

without listening,

so that you

must stop and think

about the way history

bleeds behind the

thoughts that you are

eating.