Nov 19


i sit and wait for my mind to paint the words
like the sun paints the skies at night,
but i just cant come up with the right colors.

tonight, i want the sky to bleed lilac petals
but i keep mixing the wrong hues.
my blue is tainted yellow and now all i have is
my mind is painting oak leaves on a canvas
meant for purple petals. 
a mind stained with green.
a sky stained with green.
hands stained red from the
blood of my massacred thoughts.
it is hard to be happy with haphazard leaves
when you desired petals.

the sun does not paint a masterpiece every night.
the words will not fall to the canvas like paint. 
we stroke carefully, the sun and i.
sometimes creating lilac petals, sometimes settling for oak leaves. 

Oct 16


the wind is the sound of the earth’s blood
running through its veins.
put your hands over your ears and 
you can hear it. 
it’s like putting your head underwater
and hearing your own heartbeat.

the earth is dying.
bleeding into the surface, bleeding
into trees and leaves
staining them crimson.
leaving a bloody crimescene across
mountains and valleys
and clotting in piles.
draining, draining, gone. 

now the earth is turning pale
and its skin is turning white.
rivers that once ran down his face
are tears that have turned to ice.
the earth’s muscles stiffen and its
creatures grow still.
once rigor mortis sets in
there is not much time until.

the ground is cold to the touch
and no matter how hard i try i cannot
feel the lifeblood of the earth coursing
beneath my feet. 
the world is void of color and thus
the world is void of sun.
Aug 20

i love you out of necessity, i couldnt choose to love you anymore than i could choose not to

your fingers are willow tree branches,
trace latitude and longitude lines
across my body.
map my scars as rivers, my curves as 
mountain ranges. 
kiss me with dandelion breath and
hold me like i’m your sweet september breeze. 
you got me in a honey bee haze, you are my 
cool purple nights and the fresh yellow days.
with your vanilla skin on mine, i want to meet your mind. 

can i turn our fingers into friendship bracelet string?
blue over green over blue over you over me

sleep isnt easy without you.

Jun 15

to myself; when i am not feeling like myself

1. that even when you don't recognize the person in the mirror, they have
your mom's eyes and they look a little bit like your little brother. their heart beats
with yours. their fingernails are painted purple too. 

2. that although you don't feel like you belong to anything or anybody,
someone is thinking of you and someone is missing you. he loves you,
believe him when he tells you.

3. when you don't feel pretty or skinny
that you bleed and that you are full of blood and plasma and smooth muscle, among
other things. you are alive and you are full inside. you know this for sure.

4. to breathe. you gotta do that sometimes. 

5. to always write.
somehow writing helps you to find yourself.
when you write you remember that you
have a purpose.
because you do.
there is a reason for you to be here. 

Jun 04

a kind of love

our love is buried deep in things that
dont ever die.
a kind of forever without an
end in sight
(or in mind)

our love is cardiovascular.
between flesh and blood,
and beneath bone you dwell.
if i bleed enough, i can feel you,
i can see you in the crimson pool
at my feet.

i am stained with bloody fingerprints
smudged intimacy,
and god, i don't want to wash them off.
i don't think i can.

i am scoring your words into my
flesh, messy letters gouged into
superficial skin.
i am tearing muscle from bone trying
to seize the parts of you that
i hid within myself.

i am clawing caverns into my chest
and reaching my hands inside,
sometimes i scream your name just to
hear it echo inside of me.
i am searching for you between
the beats of my heart.
cracks in the cardiac foundation of my being.
May 25

the monster that hid beneath his skin

her father was killed by monsters before her birth,
or at least that’s what her mother always said.

sometimes her mother would find herself begging
her daughter to sleep beside her in order to
fill the empty space to the left of her in bed.
her mother often whispered stories of her father
when the daughter was supposed to be asleep,
the daughter would hold her eyes closed and her ears open,
she would feel her mother settle down on the side of her bed,
barely disturbing the sheets and begin to use her
satin voice to explain in the only way she knew how,
what happened to her father.

sometimes her mother spoke of the raw hands
with fingers as long as tree branches
that grabbed him in the middle of the night,
packed up all of his things
and took him,
without a sound.

sometimes her mother would whisper,
and explain that her father was strangled,
May 17


Mar 29


March 24th, 2018
Montpelier, Vermont

for the first time
i felt it rise up within me.
without hesitation,
without shame,
without fear.
my own voice, crawling out of my throat and
escaping out of my mouth,
begrudgingly pulling itself along,
weak from the journey,
but perservering.

for the first time
it demanded to be heard,
not asking for permission,
instead taking a seat on my tongue 
and resting its head on my lips,
showing its face and bearing its scars
from being told what it
could not say,
what it
should not say.
it enveloped itself in the sun and joined
with the thousands of other voices in
filling the air with vibrations.

first you saw us.
now you see our voices, now you feel them.
and oh,
they taunt you with inspiration,
they unnerve you with education,
and they
dare you