Posted in Poetry

A Heart

i’ve been careful.

i think it was

time that i was.


you see,

we are

.              used to

hold on-


to things

like they


to us.


but they do not.


we Beat


black and

blue like-


it all

really matters

.                             to us.


but it does not.


so i have been

careful, lately.


i started holding

my own

.                 hand

when i entered

a darkened room.


i’ve stopped


.                  back

knowing my own


.          enough.


i painted

cotton candy

.                         skies,

and put them in

a postcard.


i mailed it to

no one

.              at all.


maybe if we’re

 .                            lucky,

it will reach you

maybe if we’re

.                            lucky,

it won’t.


i guess,

i got tired

of having

a Beating

  .                   Heart.


(or this,

or that,

or you,

or me.)


Hearts are for those

who need

 .                them.

and i don’t need

a thing,

.               at all.

Posted in Poetry

it is


to believe


there’s something



or                   that


was left

is not                    missing



Posted in Poetry


i need to become her, again.

if only for a little while.


i need to sink knees

into a soft stomach,

and curl fingers

into fists.


i need the quiet,

and the laughter,

and the pain,

and the music.


music, music, music.


i need to be her again,

because she’s the only version of myself

that knows how to heal.


i will hold her hand,

and quietly step back.

i will allow her to take my place,

to sit down on weathered knees,

and cry, and cry, and cry.


i will sit here, and wait.

i will listen to music,

watch Glee,

and drown my thoughts

on liquid sounds,

until there’s nothing left but her.


her, her, her.


i need to become her, again.

if only for a little while.

if only for a night.

if only for an hour.


i need to hold her hand.

i need to cry.

Posted in Poetry








that is







isn’t it?


a river that doesn’t flow and a lie that never dies




this is who



Posted in Poetry

Above it All

Above it all,

I am a coward.

And I don’t mean it because the dark makes me breathless

Or because my brain conjures up

A thousand and one ways I could die.


I’m a coward because I cannot face my flaws.

I’m terrified of losing people

And because of that I keep them at arms-length.


I don’t like being reminded of my flaws,

I don’t like having flaws.

I don’t like second and triple and octuplet guessing my every move,

And hurting people because of that.


I’m a coward because I hurt you

Because even now I can’t explain why

Can’t talk about how tight my chest gets

How stupid I am for forgetting it all.


And I can’t even say I’m sorry.




Posted in Poetry


I know that life and circumstances

Have made you into who you are,

Pushing pieces and shrapnel until they fused into a weapon.


I understand that you are a part

That you’re not whole

And what it costs for you to exist fractured as you are.

But it’s hard to love like you do.


Pulling and pushing and tearing

You turn everything into shrapnel

Mincing and grinding the world into something you can understand.


Because possession and desperation are not love,

Cannot be.

Should not be.

But that is how you hold onto things.


You sink claws and teeth

Until there’s nothing left

Until there’s just you and your poison

Coursing through a tired system of lies

Whose only crime was to try to love like you.


Buy who could love like you?

Who could love you when you think love equals pain?


And I understand that circumstances shaped you

In part

Into who you are.


But I also know that the ocean can soothe marks on the sand.

It can erode the sharpness out of rock and shattered glass.


You never had someone teach you how to not be glass,

But you held an ocean in the palm of your hand.


It didn’t drown you,

You wouldn’t let it.

But you consumed it.


You made it impossible to love you

By poisoning the waters that were made for healing and soothing.

You drowned in bitterness the one thing that could hold your fragments together.


It is hard to love like you.

It is impossible to love you.


Posted in Poetry

Thoughts on ‘Keys’

I. It is not often that you wonder about what you do not have. You do not have a home, you do not own a car. Your hands have never hold a key in a way that wasn’t transitory.

II. Homes are not for those who wander, and you have never done anything but. There are times in which you wonder how your feet can carry you miles and oceans away when there are still pieces of your body that linger and stay.

III. The first time you held a key it was a sign to move forward. You did not have a choice. Keys were rust and metal sticking to the back of your throat. Transit meant fear and blood, rooms and cars, bullets and wounds. It was here that you learnt the true meaning of oxygen and water.

IV. The last time you held a key you could not breathe. Your lungs were made of saltwater and smoke. Sand ran through your veins like the careless passing of an indifferent clock. Time moved backwards and then forward. You lost hours upon hours, upon hours counting back the salt you never wanted to give back to the ocean in your chest.

V. It is not often that you wonder about what you cannot have. You cannot have a home, cannot own a name or a place. Your hands, so used to touch and let go are being taught that sometimes to linger means to hold, and sometimes you need to hold to let go.

VI. Names are for people who stay, and your body is so used to running it seems to slip a bit further away with every word you say. There are times in which you wonder how your body can stay afloat when the ocean in your chest is filled with rocks and corpses.

VII. The first time you hold a key is as an afterthought. You are an afterthought, only barely there and almost unrecognizable under the right light. Transit still makes your bones ache and your blood ask for something you cannot give it anymore.

VIII. The next time you hold a key it has a weight, a meaning, a taste other than copper and stale tears. You do not run anymore. Your scars and wounds have taught you that you can endure, that you are a rock and weathered canvas.

IX. It is not often that you think about what you have and what you are. You are a key in someone else’s hand, a choice, a sign. You are home, when houses and cars have never been anything other than transit.

X. You are home. Oceans and sandless clocks can never dictate your future, because you held hands with someone who gave you a key and invited you over. You are not afraid of the salt you’ve yet to give back to the world, because now your wounds are protected, covered. You are not afraid of a body that wanders far because you have a heart that stays and belongs.

You can stay and belong, that is what keys are for.