I always come back
to your xoxo‘s
and your big crooked smile
and how your mind knows
what little deceits
my brain tricks me with.
You change the equation
to make logic fit.

I always return
to the big words you carve
into need you’s and miss you’s
until I am starved
of reality’s measure of
love and of friends.
Until I am clawing
at your threaded ends.

I always make truths
out of webs of half-lies,
of pictures you draw
that depict your demise
or the life you could make
if I’d disappear.
I wonder if you see
me, bare, standing here.

I always regret
what I should not have done,
or perhaps might have said
had you ever been one
to listen, to hear my
silence speak tones high.

With x’s and o’s,
I tell you–finally:

Too Much Heart

There are some things that the
brain won’t let you see,
but the heart can make you
What we had was visceral.
Instinctive. Intuitive.
And now those little snapshots
in the camera flash of my
consciousness that have
your name stamped across
their frames make
my stomach lurch–
seasickness on land,
for you never touched the ground, did you?
The sound of your name,
the memory of your decorated lies,
the turmoil of our downfall–
they exist in my mind as things. Events, objects,
In my heart they are vessels,
splattered in red and fractions of regrets.
And no matter what my mind dictates,
the pumping vessels always win–
unfolding me from indo- to endo-
until vestiges of me patterned in a slow,
pulsing beat are all that remain.

Sixth Sense

Pitch darkness, tiny beads of streetlight peppering into
view from the small square windows. Your silhouette,
dark in the outline of the pale sheets. Blurriness
(for I can’t see much without my glasses),
and the alabaster shine of your eyes.

Your breathing, relaxed and syncopated with my
quick inhales of trying to relax into the sound of
your arm resting on mine. Voice cracking with
dehydration and sugary affection, laugh high
and bell-like against my breathy chuckle.

Dry, sticky mouth from swallowing my paranoia.
The thoughts in my head of what your mouth on my
tongue would remind me of: sweet butter, a tinge of
citrus, bitter droplets of past lovers who never could
give you what I wish I did not know you needed.

A stale-washed quilt in a stuffy room that smells
of too many exhales. Your perfume mixing with
make-up remover and no food since lunchtime.
The aromas of our different bodies mingling, itching
to know more about the other.

Fingers linking with the hand of another. Soft, gentle
circles with the tip of your thumb on my hand.
One kiss, two, three on my left shoulder–your lips
have left ink there, spilled sloppily with tiredness and wine,
but they touch me, you touch me–

Humming-shifting-pulsing, eyes teary and lips parted.
Your body curves parallel to mine until I close the gap.
Knowing it will never be like this again, not anymore.
Cherishing the way your chest moves up-down-up-down
under your arm. A possibility deep within me that you

will never,


I am human, and I am thus a mess of contradictions.
I have scars on my body, thick and dark and fat
against the pale of my skin.
They are not as beautiful as
the blog pictures make them out to be.
I am human, and thus I hide my scars from some
while displaying them broadly for others.
I speak my truths for some.
I blanket them with lies for others.
There are some truths they all can see:
My eyes are blue.
My heart beats.
I laugh too loudly.
I want them all to know:
My eyes are wet.
I wish my heart to cease.
I love too hard.
(But I’ll never tell.
The telling silence is
my favorite sensation.
As long as I am human–
a mess of contradictions–I’ll be
as loudly quiet as I can.)