Apr 01

traits of being a pumpkin:

sometimes I get so sad 
my brain turns to squash 

when I think about 
how small my room gets 
when I fall asleep 

and how my hands ache 
after days of painting 

who sit perfectly poised 
a study of the human body
and color 

how the sun was only out
for 3 hours this week 
in 4 minute increments 

and I was too busy 
falling almost asleep 
to notice the light streaming in 
my eyelids 

too focused on the shadows 
my eyelashes cast over 
my cheeks 

remembering what lightning 
looked like 
when my heart still smiled 

and my toes weren't so cold 

I miss not knowing 
so much 

my mind didn't know 
and I was less dizzy 

I miss my big t shirts 
that I used to throw on over nothing 
before crawling into an unmade bed 

ignorance is bliss 
Mar 29

44 words I can not say:

Mar 29

sunday it rained:

I wrote your name 
on the left wall 
in the back of my closet 

In my notebook 
with all the pages torn out 
I wrote: 

I miss you 
54 times 


Im definitely missing 
a bone in my wrist 


birds have wings but 
I do not 


pick up milk 
before 5 


most people are not made of 
grass and something in between 
the rose beds 


sometimes I breath in 
all day 
before breathing out and when I do my mind 

I am definitely made of the sun 
because the spot where my heart should be feels 
too big for my chest and is tearing me to 

and I hope you learn 
that the most beautiful thing you can do is feel 

I fell in love 
Mar 25

The week of broken staircases:

There's a place between 
the kitchen floor and 
Sunday morning 

where green thumbs 
dig themselves under roots of 
dandelions that bury too deep 
suffocating the rhubarb

meeting the black that 
sticks under your fingernails 
and squishes between your toes 

where coffee 
goes cold too fast and tastes 
like honey

and sunshine 
streams through windows too early 
in the morning 

where wind sweeps up your hair
and carries away yesterday's 
sorrows and tomorrow's newspaper

and birds sing soft melodies 
that entangle themselves into the lace
that hems your dress
and the raindrops 

that fall on the crumpled pages 
of your book 
filling the gaps between the words 
with the color purple 

where you pin the crossword puzzles 
that you never finish 
over gaping holes in a 
plastered wall.
Mar 03

to the girl who can't feel her toes:

I know 
that when you close your 
eyes your brain screams 
angry words into your ears 

and I cant tell you 
to put down that razor blade 
because tomorrow 
you will wake up and feel okay

and I could tell you 
that you would be missed 
that your family loves you 

but I think you already know 

so I will tell you instead to wait 

wait until you run out 
of leftovers in your fridge 

wait until you read the 
last national geographic magazine 

wait until you finish the lipgloss 
that you never wear 

wait until you write a bucket list

wait until you finish it 

wait until you run out of ink 
in all your pens 

wait until you burn through 
all your candles 

wait because I know 
that you will love the new frappacino
starbucks is anouncing next month

wait until tomorrow 
Feb 27

Davis Brothers Moving Company:

you found the edge of the tape 
as I sat on the floor 
surrounded by cardboard boxes 

"kitchen" and 
"dining room" and 
"peanut butter" for some reason 

we made piles 
on our cracked linoleum floor 
stained from years of coffee 

and the mud you dragged in on your boots 
you refused to take off 

"take" and "leave"

the take pile still far too big 

full of sweaters you insisted you still wore 
and my rain boots from the year 
I fell in love with the color orange 

that was the year I ate 
over 400 clementines 
you kept track 

and you switched from cigarettes 
to cigars 
for the "aesthetic" 

in the leave pile
there were mainly socks 

we had a lot of socks 

all filled with holes 
from that one time we moved our dresser 
up to the attic 
Feb 12

injuries acquired from slipping on ice:

I walked 
through piles of words 
in too short boots 

that left them room 
to slip in with every step I take 
and melt into puddles 
under my heels 

from the 
never yielding eyes 
of fruit flies 
that cling to the past 

and break down the 
of girls with too many doubts
hidden by perfect eye liner 

and impeccably
sentences that imitate everything 
they've read about confidence 

picking at my skin and 
too short hair 

and wondering what 
my jeans ,that are too loose,
would look like crumpled
on the floor 

where your hands 
sometimes go 
when its just the two of us 

and draw diagrams 
of each and every inch 
of my chest 
with their loud voices 

and I crawl inside 
myself and disappear 

and now I carry 
this little piece of 

Feb 06

clocks don't work on sunday mornings:

I open my eyes 
to light 
that bursts through glass 

window panes and 

of blonde hair 
sewn into my 

I open my eyes 
to fabric suffocating 
last nights dreams 
and memories made of 
silk and feathers 

last night I turned to water 
and sunk into the corners 
of my bedframe
where the dust bunnies meet 

to discuss 
the secrets shoved under 
my dresser 

I open my eyes 
made of paper 
prone to tearing 

up and 
drip dropping 
on the cicadas 
that so carefully 

sit on the underside 
of my fan blades 
dreaming of upside down coffee tables 

radio static 
into my quiet ears 

twisting me into
simple chaos 

Feb 04

what birds remember:

I hope when they take flight 
the birds in the cherry tree 
think of me too 

with their wings made of sunlight 
and snow 
and coal painted fethers 

and the sky falling together 
like broken glass 
and people in love 

with the small things 
carried in careful fingers 
found burried in the sand 

with heartbreak and rain 
that drowns out 
every deep breath 

with the songs sung 
when the moon ducks 
under the horizon 

remeber me too 
among your beautiful things 
climbing up that very tree and hoping to fly 
Jan 20

unfolding origami cranes:

I fell
through water 
and into you 

everything was backwards 
my name written upside down 
under your barely there finger nails 

my mouth 
glued into a perfect 

refusing to tell 
prying eyes on the other 
line of a telephone reciever 

all the ways I loved 

how it 
hid under the surface 
of my skin 

in all the small ways 
that your arms sometimes 
curled around my shoulders 
when my heart 
would beat too fast 

how my thoughts 
fumbled over you 
everytime I took a breath 

how your eyes 
never made me scared of drowning 
how instead 
I swam to the ocean floor 

how do I put 
into words 
mumbled through a telephone
that you are every drop of rain 
and the center of a hurricane 

and I never want to come up for