i. 
my words only come out in
sudden fits of passion,
and then they’re
gone
again. 

ii. 
gone:
maybe i know the feeling too well—
my empty chest beats silently
ever since the sun rose. 
i cry because it feels good
to wash away all the feelings. 
but crying is like rain. 
it just moves all the water to another
deeper
spot. 

iii. 
i don’t know how to put my feelings
into words. 
i’m a broken poet.
(but aren’t we all?)

iv. 
she reminds me of almonds
and yarn
and grapes
and scarves
and white houses that look like hospitals. 

v. 
i hate that i’m a girl
with only one grandmother. 
i hate that i feel like something’s missing—
like something’s always going to be missing. 

vi.
what am i without my heart?