my fingers are on strike 
or something like that. 
they refuse to work for my brain. 
they won’t write any more words at all. 

but i’ve had so many thoughts lately. 
thoughts alive with colors dripping from my 
eyelashes, after they fell from the sky

laughter cascading down a water slide in an inflatable tube, 
sunburnt and chlorine soaked, accidentally swallowed your bubblegum

a campfire midnight, holding marshmallow sticky hands 
talking about building a ladder to the stars, intermittently tasting the salt on your lips

abstract dreams and their flapper-dance, backflip, sunset energy 
grabbing the english language by the wrist and dragging him 
out of his chair for a few songs 

words and words and words tumble out of my thoughts,
tiny acrobats leaping over each other,

tempestuous oceanstorm, i owe you my heart. 

my heart my lungs my warmth
though my rib cage,           (for which i have no key)
is locked, 
but

part my lips, past teeth over tongue
please tear through my throat 
rip my windpipe , claim your home there
replace air with raging saltwater
as i sputter and writhe

shred your name into my tensed muscles 
command your reckless torrents through my hair tangle knots in every strand strangle me with these golden tendrils,
decorate the matted mess with glittering pockets of oxygen torn from me in a 
final 
helpless
scream

take me back where you(‘ve always)      know(n) i belong. 

and at last, my debt has been paid.
 

The only thing protecting my feet from the shards were the thin rubber soles of my shoes. It was everywhere. The room was full of glistening, sparkling, perfect glass. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to taste the cold jagged edges mixing with my blood. I bent and gathered a handful of it and I closed my fist as hard as I could. Tears welled in my eyes as I felt the broken pieces pierce my skin. A grin spread across my face. Opening my hand I noticed that several chunks remained lodged in my palm. And my heart was beating faster than before. I turned my hands to drop what I had picked up. The sound of the pieces falling back onto the other glass was like music. A gentle twinkling. I couldn’t resist that. Discarding my sweatshirt in the corner, I shivered, and stepped into the rectangle of moonlight streaming in through the open window. I kicked off my shoes, now only wearing my bra and gym shorts. I lowered myself down and lay flat on my back, feeling my skin breaking.

i am who i am

i am blue eyes perched atop freckled cheeks, hiding
behind unruly curls of
dull gold
hair
    i see
everything.

i am
a hastily-made birthday cake,
boxed mix and canned frosting-- spitting
flickering light onto the kitchen walls from
the tip of a candle you found in the drawer
next to the batteries and the scotch tape.

i am
snowflakes piling onto the corpses of this spring’s flowers
in your garden

i am haunted by the words you claim you never said,
their weight resting on my hands.

i am
the gravity that binds you to this earth and i know
you wish you could cut yourself
free from me and all i want is to make that one wish come true
but i don’t know how - im sorry

i am who i am

 

through the lens i saw you
shudder in the cold.
i captured your paths detaching
frost from blades of grass,
scrunching your eyes with a
side-smile
passing over your face.
glasses fogging up,
breath-clouds,
like smoke through dense
december air,,

i wonder why you always look happier on film.
 

we're clothed in only shadows
with a green blanket covering our heads.

your lips quivering in the dense summer
air, drooling honeyed words over my
breasts, 
eyes locked on the butterfly wing-curve of
my mouth.

the crickets' shrill violins are muffled by
the soft sigh of my breathing so close to your 
ear.

your lashes graze my shoulder as your lips
collide with my skin

and now 
these mosquitoes have seen what we've 
only whispered to the rest of the world.
 

bittersweet.
that’s the word that comes to my 
mind when i think about
you.
and how you left.

sometimes i think i miss you.
when i’m standing in front of the mirror in my room.
i’ve noticed that my bones don’t
jut out like they used to.

and i’ve never liked the number 133. 
you know that, of course. 
i prefer 120, and 114; 
numbers like that. 

you seemed to like 103 and 98. i’m sure 
you could’ve persuaded me to be on your
side if i’d have let you. 
and if you hadn’t started to fade away, 
i would have. 

it’s my fault you’re not here anymore.
i know that. 
yes, i’m proud of myself for finally telling you
that you could not stay. 
or do i feel this way just because everyone says 
“good riddance” when i mention your name?

as poisonous as you were for my body, 
my mind still thinks i was weak to let you
go.