Warmthhe presses his skinagainst mine..I’m shivering,beneath his touch.his hands linger along the base of my spine,caress the curve of my hips,and trace the anglesof my shoulder blades,his breath is slow against my earlobe.he sighs.I forgetthat we’ve done this before.I can taste the urgency in his kisses,he lays his body on mine,and I forgetthat it is one in the morning.I forget that my roommate will come home tomorrow.I forget shame. ripped packets,hushed moans,and kisses reverberate in the dark room,I can feel every movement that he makes against me,he slides himself lower,dips his head,and sighs.I forget that I have fingernails.I forget how to think.I forget.his skin makes mine feel warmer,we are open, cascading like waves againstseashellsknowing that intimacy is what keeps us breathing,moving, aliveI become the clouds against his skin,stars painting canvases of color across his lips,I forget that I am humanbliss numbs your tongue the
73 - First-AidI’ll say it now:I don’t know how to save a life.The first time I wanted to learnhow to take care of myself,was whenI opened a first-aid kithoping that it would help meclose wounds.I unwrapped all of the bandages,glanced at the packets of medicine,and wondered if the ointment would actually workon wounds that weren’t on the surface of my skin.That was the same dayI learned that an antiseptic stings more than soap onopen cuts,this is why we use alcohol to numbour painIn health class,they taught me what to do if I ever injured myself.Figure out what is wrong,self-diagnosis,raise the wound to prevent bleeding,dress the wound after applying pressure,make sure you’ve cleaned before otherwiseit’ll get infected.Remember to put on antibacterial ointment,remind yourself that there is a number to callwhen you’ve lost all hope.Emergencies only.Note:The pain is only physical;you’ll survive.Don’t flinch.Don’t call
AperturesI walked over to your grave,marked with a rose, and poppies.I forget,that in this movement,we are just ghosts,too silent to be heard,too invisible to be noticed,your body is riddled with bulletholesand I wondered how long it would beuntil mine is too.you took meto the Mekong riverwhere you crossed,we floated to the make-shift dock,before you went over,I lit a lantern,and tied it onto the mast of your ship,and prayedyou said you didn’t have an anchor;you weren’t talking to mewe both knew that you didn’t need one,you would greet the tides as a friend anywayI told you,as you sailed away,to never look back:look anywhere else.Find silver linings in cloudscapes,run your fingertips through the sunset,and inhale.You won't even feel it when you are punctured,apertures created in darkened limelight, refracted on the water,weare just casualtieswaiting to be remembered.
Namelessdo not love me.do not collapse against my waistwith frosted kisses alongmy wrists.I will love you too deeplyto remind myselfthat you’re only human.I will cling to you the way grammar clings to syntax and diction,wrap you tight with comma splicesuntil we are both breaths in each other’s lungs.You will be the moon, faceless,pressed against the small of my back,I will write all of our anniversaries into stories,your broken wristwatch into poems,I will weave tapestries with your broken bonesand tug heartstrings with the breathsyou’ve left me without.It is too dangerousfor me to speak your name on thisstage.do not love me.you will only forget yourself.
Hush, HushMy history iswritten on your collarbonein teardrops at night
5 - Constellation KissesThe sun will risewhen you stop searchingfor stars.Know that there are constellationstucked between everykissI have given you.
Ascensioni.The moon dips low for thosewho want to get lost in its gravityand I wonderif zero gravity can cripple a heartbecause there isn't enough pressurefor it to keep beating.ii. The sun warms the Earth,gives life, burns the skinand I wonder if I could produce enough energyto move continents if I stayed next to youbecause you are the warmest sunthat has ever been in my life.iii.There are scars lining the curve of my spineand the highways of my wrists,nearly invisible.The flowers that bloom in my chestevery time you walk awayare forgotten stars.iv.I kissed you to make sure that your lipswere as delicate as the clouds.I never told you that my heart is too delicate,the way sugar burns too quickly.v.Too much exposure leads to burnsI am thankful for every snowflake that will fall onmy scorched skin.vi.The moon dipped low for both of usand we learned what zero gravity felt like.I just want to know:do you ever wish on shoo
Frostbitei am cold. I have loved nearly every single personI have ever come in contact with.There is a temperature for love in every human person:I am frost against his desert skin,lingering the way dew stays on the grass in the morninguntil swept away by sunlight. Polar opposites.We are an oasistogetherin a land where our love burns hotter than theSahara,I am snowfall against his molten skinhe teaches me thatthere is a delicate balance in lovingsomething that could hurt youThere are lines in the divide between my lover and Iand only on the streetsam I afraid of his touch:flinch away, don’t look into his eyes,don’t hold his hand, don’t look at himmake it look like you’re two strangers walking together,look like a “bro”,don’t smile at him,when he compliments you quietly, nod your headapologize for being afraid.Why am I apologizing?We both knowwhat happens behind closed doorsbecause my hands linger,he lays beneath the
82 - BeautifulTell me that I am worth something beautiful.The words that fell from his lipswould have told me the same thing,he pressed his hands against the curve of my spineasking why we loved so violently.Reminding methe act of loving a man in a societythat doesn’t always accept youis a war.He was more broken than the sunthat fell between my legswith every orgasm and sound that I choked outwhile he was attempting to “love” meI never learned how to say no,but I never knew how to say“this is alright, please just stay”Survivors aren’t taughthow to say yes,I was taught to stay silent beneath his touchand when my hands moved to break free,I deserved every second of retribution.I have learned how to justify every act of injustice against my bodyby saying that I have deserved it for sinning,for lying with another manThis is not another Bible verse.you can look atall of the pornographythat says violence is justifiable,you can listen t
Dry BonesSometimes I replenish my whiskey bottles with waterAnd swirl it around. I drink upTo make sure I didn’t miss a single drop of that alcohol.Diluted or not, I ache for it.Grief.But not as much as I ache for you.I would rinse you out and sip all of your insides.Then I would drag your skeleton out of your skin.Help me. Worm your way free.Grief,My love.I would jumble our bones together. Mix us up.Not so we would be two with replaced bones.No, I want us to have four arms, four legs. I want,I want us to have two heads and a long twisted spineOf vertebrate upon vertebrate.I want us to clank out hollow soundsWhen we come rambling along.Our ribcages would be split and spread.No longer cages, but wings of rib bones.Your hips would jut against mineAnd our fingers would intertwine.Grief,My love,Never leave.Our skin would not go to waste,Oh no.Instead, we would tear them to shredsAnd weave them together.We could nest on them.With all our empty bottles.
Pocket UniverseI can smell the typewriters beneath your skinmetallic, halting, smudged vibratowavering note stretched out far beyondthe edge of the universe tucked in your front pocketbreathing out in time with your heartbeats.All along the wall I find notebook pagesold teabags hung for too long, green flakes whirlingwhile you sit in the lean of the willow treeand watch the play that is my lifechew the scenery; the stage collapses with a groan.You pull your scarf inand wrap the scars in burnt umberwhile the show goes onagain.
honey-filled heartshe asked her if she loved himand she looked at that golden boywith a bumblebee smile and sad veinslike good champagne leaking onto the starsonly a million words were left unsaid.
TwelveThe orchids shiveredto the sound ofraw fingers onyour old guitar,smell of tarnish, metaland un-calloused skin -the only songs you knoware your father'slullabies and aChristian rock band'sgreatest hit,four cords strong.Played on hot weekendswith the windows open,twelve years old again,fat against the waistbandof Walmart jeansand straw hair stuckto your foreheadin humid summer air.I can't feel you here,in the apartment,know you're twelve years backin time,in a different town,with no stubble on your chin.
Routinesdrivingmy left armtanned darker than my right armmirrortwo facethe habits of daily lifeleave imprintson skin
nineariel stole your breath more than i ever did -when my heart was thudding between your lungs,because that was the only safe place, or so i was toldi can't remember when my heart caught the feverfor you had guarded it with your own ribcage for so longmy memories melded between your synapses andwe became one
State of MindThey buried her today.I stood in the crowd, all of us dressed in blacks. I straightened my tie nervously as ladies I didn't know in big, veiled hats exchanged soft, sad words about what a shame it was. How she'd been so brilliant, how she'd had such a full life ahead of her. Ladies that didn't even know her.There was a coffin, but there wasn't much in it. They didn't open the casket either, like they did sometimes. The man at the funeral home had said there was a limit to how much they could make fit for viewing, and I didn't really blame him for not even trying."This sucks," Cindy told me. We were sat at one of the cheap metal tables they roll out for occasions like this, both of us with a glass of alcohol in our hands. I hadn't asked if it was wine or something else. Didn't care."Yeah," I agreed, tone muted. We exchanged a look, Cindy's eyes heavy and ringed, her face lined in stress like a mirror of my own. Together, we drank. It was white wine, dry, about a 4. She would have li
Melatonin Addictioncan i fill you up?on brine, boosts and bronze.I mean that literally,we'll dine,fuckand dash.The Earth is hollow but we still drill through.Space is a concept evidently named.I'm a warrior and you be the princess,you're already rescued, promised to curses.is a line is a line is a line is a lineand I'm in enigmas, sure by shore leaves.sunken ships launch from the beach frontand take their ghosts,a secret suicide.If ants drew us and we marched past,would it be any different, would it be any different?in a line to end all lines,and seductive co-workers fling their shit at me.once primal, always primal, just anthropomorphic.I'm just a collection of piss stains,wrung out and forgottenstinky and melancholic.addicted to that pin-prick well,settling for justice with a bucket,we dip our heads into water and crack the rot over bemusement.I hope you wake upoh, god i hope you fucking wake up
HomesickI am the river's son,my arteries flowing turquoiseand turning to rapidsrushing around my frame,filling me with this senseof buoyancy, minnowstickling my sternum.I am the river's son.My palms caress eachsilty shoreline, everybattered bank and bend,and these places I knowso well become meas my fingerprint,even the bridge above meinflamed by the afternoonsun-glow, burning rusty andblood-orange againstthe steel blue sky.I am the river's son;I bring my home alonglike hermit crab,where I stepI pull water from the earth.
EmpyreanMomma said to never marry an astronaut,they will always prefer the twinkling starlightto the light in your eyes.They'll only end up in ships that floataimlessly in zero gravity and you will not be there.Momma said to never marry an astronaut.You will stand firmly on the earth,clutching the ground and knowingthey will always prefer the twinkling starlight.Planets will fracture and stars will collapselong before he recognizes he can travelto the light in your eyes.
Darkness Smells Like RosesDarkness Smells like RosesI blew the stray eyelash off of her cheek. She shivered as my breath brushed across her skin, but she didn't wake up. Instead she nuzzled the back of her head further into my shoulder and kept on sleeping, her even breath keeping time with the grandfather clock next to the couch we were on. My arm was falling asleep, but I couldn't bear to move it and wake her. I also couldn't fall asleep. I never sleep when I spend the night with her. All I can do is lay still and silent, watching her chest rise and fall in steady rhythm. There was a clawing noise against the cloth covering the back of the couch. Puddles, Emily's cat, squeezed his way up from behind the couch. His eyes looked disembodied in the darkness, his black fur melded with the black couch and the dark of the night.He purred at me as he moved languidly forward to snuggle into the crook of my neck, right above Emily's head. I was just a popular guy tonight. I let Puddles bury himself into the
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung wordsTogether on row upon row againOf blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,To point with honesty failed verse of thine.No real poet discards upper case words;Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.You seek to free verse of those stern letters,Sever away bleak capital fetters,But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,To make our dull words sound great all the time,Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,Heralding a poet’s summer prime.Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,The subject not gilded in raiment fine;Your bold ink font, crystal waters divineTastes bitter to the ton
ClippingsYou press down on the lever, straining for the sound you adore.Clip, clip.Sharp metal blades clamp down, and a strip of white breaks free. One more snip to go, you've been waiting for this. You slide the clipper a touch right; you squint as you adjust the blade's position; too far and you unearth new fleshy depths, too near and you’ll waste a snip. You take a deep breath and tuck your elbows closer to your ribs. Pull your head lower, closer. Your chest stops rising, the soft whooshing of air from your nostrils stop. Control is vital!You press.Clip.A little white sliver does a dainty somersault flip before falling into darkness. You see its little curlicue flip, but you must move on. You are on a mission, and the goal approaches. Victory will be yours, must be yours. None must survive this purge.But the sounds you loathe are always loud and clear."Are you cutting your skin again? How long have you been at it?! It's all over the floor! Oh my god, your finger
defeatheredand this is where we bury our hearts,between self-defeating personality disordersand burnt bridges and midnight ramblingswe promise ourselves aren’t true;embedding our memories in forsaken homeslike it is a conscious decision to shedour wings (reptiles don’t fly)and maybe I am the monster of everymyth: wide-eyed and jagged toothed andlooking to regain a piece of myself theworld borrowed, many moons agoas I falter and stumble over my own unawarefeet, wreaking havoc, reeking of self-acquittal--all I ever wanted to do was belong.dreams are flaws much like the hearts weflaunt on our sleeves, and I seem tohave lent all mine away; I amsomething entirely ignorant, in the dark,believing fingers fumbling can find answers.they never told me reflections are backwardsand the world spins the wrong way andhurricanes are really an embodimentof all our own withdrawals:but one day, these walls will crumble,and I will learn to breathe in dust.
gossamer, and yousome people(the lucky ones)get songs stuck in their heads.i, on the other hand,am left with wordsthat beat incessantly againstthe confines of my brain.last week, it was "gossamer."i thought it was whimsical;that was pleasant.i saw the wordevery which way i turned: a gossamer veil of sunlight, a silk shirt like gossamer, a spider hanging by a thread of it.i hate the word now,with all its whimsy washed away;the hard g is too harsh and garishagainst the roof of my mouth,the double s too serpentine.it feels numbingly stiff on my tongue,like some sort of linguistic anomaly,a could-be word that really shouldn't be.today, it was your name.(i never thoughtproper nouns counted, butevidently, they do.)i didn't see you as much as i heard you,somewhere,in the whistling of the breezeor the creaking of the hardwood floors.your imposing yet warm presencehovered somewherenear the nape of my neck.i admit that somewherein the recesses of my mind,i ho
Sumus de stellisA Gbmempty trees with empty branchesA Gb11lonely horses on lonely ranchesA Gbmwhy do they run in circles, love?A C#mlives like that reminiscent of --B Gbsus2sweaters stained with false regret A Gbm7the tears of those with oxygen debtB B A
love poem from a pillar of saltthe words 'i love you'have always tasted like forbidden fruitan apple offered by a helpful serpent-sweet and fleeting butthe words 'i loved you'just taste offinality.i always thought that leaving you would be like leaving gomorrahthat i couldn't help looking backand when i did i'd feel an ocean dry itself beneath my skinbut this is so much quieterand so much worse.my knuckles taste of blood,not salt.there is no new testament herejust old testament firejust lot's wife standing on a forgotten hillrocksalt freezing her outstretched handswatching her hometown burn below her.there is no forgiveness herejust mutual lonelinessjust a lost religion and a broken girlfar too tired to play pretendwatching you fall apart behind me.
supernovae"Wouldn't it be great if we could watch a star explode?"It was just like her to say that. The violence of another world's ending was, to her, poetic. If our own sun exploded, I think she'd open up her arms to embrace it."I don't know that I'd want to be that close," I said."That's the cool part. You wouldn't have to be." But she still didn't think we were close enough.That was how we always ended up like this, sitting in a car, driving to nowhere, with nothing but the sound of the tires on the highway and the company of the stars above us. She couldn't sit still long enough to color in the details, so we never did. We just kept driving.She leaned back in the passenger seat and kicked her feet up, staring at the ceiling of the car as if it wasn't there."When stars exploded a long time ago, they painted pictures of them and wondered if the gods were looking down on them. What do you think we'll do when we get to see one?""Take a picture."She shot an expression at me that I
Clayeffervescent acrosssummer sunsets,his bodyis the canvas wheremy handscreate landmarks.