Dec 11


I never really liked cologne.
Perfumes are included.
Any strong scents really.
Maybe it was the allergies
or the fact that the allergies made it
so I couldn't breathe through my nose.
Maybe I was allergic to it all
and that's why my eyes watered
and I never liked how I choked on its clouds.

I like wafting scents.
Like my mother's fresh baked cookies,
or the lilacs at school.
Freshly mowed grass,
but I'm allergic to that too
and "scentless" shampoo.
They're not as overpowering,
and there's something more natural,
something more comfortable and familiar,
and I find myself getting back to those scents.

I've always loved the smell of rain.
The wet asphalt,
the crisp chlorophyll scents.
I always liked that word.
It's why I liked the grey skies
and the looming clouds
because maybe the rain would come again
Dec 11

To Women

Women are a wonderfully fantastic force.
We know the feeling of fear in the night,
that familiar heart pound
and how drums cry out in our eardrums
when the street is dark
and our heels are high.
But that's why we travel in packs,
so the keys don't lace between our fingers
and we don't cut our knuckles on the teeth.

We bite our cheeks
and our tongues
and draw blood
as we stay calm and silent,
because it's the quiet that is dangerous
and the most ominous.

We scream when we feel the need,
voices molten and biting,
breath like acid
and words like knives.
It's a blend of sensations,
stabbing and pulling
and disgustingly cold
that it burns up
from the inside out,
we let the anger consume us if need be,
because we are the titans that roam the earth.

We are there for each other,
arms outstretched
and wide,
Nov 16

By My Side

I feel the anger in my veins,
hot and furious,
I feel like I'm boiling alive.
I cry when I'm frustrated,
and now I can feel the dams cracking,
I want nothing more
than to yell and scream
but they told me to be silent
and soft.
I bit my tongue
until I tasted the molten iron
and swallowed it.

You rushed to me,
despite my protests,
and as much as I wish you didn't,
I am thankful.

You didn't have to climb down
from your lofted bed
and slip on your shoes.
You didn't have to follow me
as I stomped down the stairs.
You shuffled beside me
despite the bitter cold
and biting winds,
and reminded me that life is okay.

I felt my temperature drop just a bit,
the rapid boil dulling to a simmer,
and I slowed down my heartbeat
with every last apology.

I don't know what I did to deserve you,
you and your neverending patience,
Nov 14


I am selfish to love you.
Not because wanting you to be happy
is a bad thing
(in fact I want nothing more
than for you to smile),
but because I want your best moments
to be at my side
and with my being
in your memories.

I love you selfishly and hungrily
and I want nothing more
than to hold your hand
and to venture the world together.
I know you think the same,
but you don't look at me
as someone to love
and to hold
when the world turns in for the night,
I am just a friend
to lean on
and to cry with.

I'll take what I can get,
and that is fine.
I just wish
you'd look at me
like you look at him.
Nov 14

A Pen's Rebellion

I regret writing about you.
I regret immortalizing this facade.
I regret convincing people that this
picturesque description
and intxociating smile
and "good-intentioned kindness"
was ever truly behind your dark eyes.

I'm not quite sure you did care,
and that would be fine
if not for how you deceived me
and used me for my mind,
and kept taking until I had no purpose
only to leave me,
and ready for the grave.

I'm not your disposable pen
that you carry at your hip like a gun
that you use until the ink runs out.
I'm not an object.
I am first and foremost,
a person,
and it would do you well to remember that.

I wish you were here to read this
and to wonder if this is about you,
because it is.
I wrote it in my chldish rage,
but this burning beneath my ribs
is too intense to ignore,
and it seems the only thing
Nov 11

Can't Help But Wonder

Dingy brown piano,
grime coated,
and ivory keys worn.
Scratch marks litter the sharps,
and dust settles in every last crack.
It's plunky and slightly out of tune,
tucked away in the corner as if discarded,
but you sit down on its creaky bench
and I've never loved messy music more.

Your lips stain mine,
like scribbles on scores
and scratch marks across pale skin,
it's like the footprints we left in fresh snow
and how you told me
you made the hour long trek to school
in that old trench coat
because you couldn't find a driver.
It tastes old and familiar,
just a little different,
and more bitter.

The space between us is immeasurable.
The hot energy
and fiery brilliance
has since died down.
I feel your weight on this beat mattress beside me,
but you're absent-minded
as you run a thumb across my cheek

Nov 02

The Fine and Fleeting Art of the Catcall

Get in the car drunk,
or high,
pick your poison,
and slap your friend on the shoulder.
Laugh to yourself as the car lurches forward
and you feel your stomach contents churn.
You're too inebriated to drive,
and you feel like a husk,
but a little less poetic
and with far less grace.

Let your lazy eyes roam the dark sidewalks,
slick with rainfall
and littered with rotting leaves
and settle on a small figure,
chinese food in hand
and friend by her side.
Notice her tied back hair,
and the laughter like bells to your ears.

Roll down your window and lean,
clench your friend's shoulder
and beg to slow down.
Like a dog
letting its tongue roll from its mouth,
stick your head into the fresh night air.
Directly attack,
pounce on her.

Leave her in the puddles
and exhaust pipe fumes

Oct 22

Summer Isn't Just Summer

Summer isn't just summer.
it's the cold lemonade,
and the foreheads beaded with sweat.
It's the breathlessness of running too hard,
of laughing too hard in the car,
and lyrics screamed
out the window and into the vast expanse
of the world.

Summer isn't just summer.
It's also
staying up too late,
sweating in bed
and staring at the ceiling.
It's the sleeping in too late
and staying up too early,
where even the sun peeks above the horizon line
to scold and to taunt.
It's the peeling red skin,
the aches and the burns,
sand ground into raw knees and palms,
and the taste of salt
dancing across your lips.

Summer is the sinking feeling of dread,
of counting down the days until-
it's the finite time and the finite feelings,
the ones we wish we could bottle up
and the ones we wish to forget,
the ones we take for granted.
Oct 08


I was the smart kid in high school.
The one who everyone asked to see their homework
or asked questions about their essay.
I was the level students strived for,
looked up to
and gripped ladder rungs in a race
to climb and to catch up to me.
I didn't like that,
and I stopped trying,
or I stopped caring.
And that only made the mob angrier.
They didn't like that I gave up,
that I let go,
because I was still there
and still dangling over them.

I'm trying hard again.
But now I'm failing.
It was the first quiz I failed.
The first test I failed.
Possibly, the first class I will fail.

Isn't that strange?

I wonder what they think of me now.
I'm sure they're all past me now.

I'm glad.
Oct 02

Love Yourself

I love self care,
and positivity,
and there is nothing more beautiful
than someone with newfound confidence,
as they take their first steps into the world
dripping with love for themselves
and respect for their environment.
I support them
and how they love and appreciate themselves,
because there have been numerous times
where I did not let myself think like that.

I love to uplift those who need it,
who lack the confidence
to wear that shirt they want
or to audition for that group
or to reach out for help.
I want to inspire others
and lighten their loads
because I've been there,
and I know how it aches.

the concept
of "You can only love others
after you've learned to love yourself"
is pure bullshit.

I have spent countless nights
in love with those in need of help,
who needed the slightest spark
Sep 27


It's like a marathon,
but instead of running a reasonable pace
they're asking you to sprint all of the miles,
they're asking you to give enough
that when you finally drop dead in the race,
that your final breath is spent
for not finishing
and for not doing enough.

You churn out idea after idea,
you keep giving until it hurts,
until you're tearing away parts of you
and auctioning those off
because it's the genuine
and the raw
and the original
that we crave.
You go until thinking itself hurts
and you're constantly running on fumes,
and you can feel that hole in your gut,
eating away
and asking for a break
as you starve.

We're constantly breathing out,
giving our energy
and our time
in the name of our productivity,
and we're constantly giving,
but we have nothing left.
Sep 22

Hello Autumn

I won't write about
sunsets painted on tree canopies
or how the horizon is aglow with flames,
I won't write about the spiced apple cidar
and the cinnamon of my childhood.
Autumn is not those sensations,
not those memories,
not to me at least.

Autumn was the start of a school year,
eagerly awaiting my friends
and the joy they brought me daily.
It was the community
and the unity
that made it my favorite time.
It was morning walks
with my nose turning red
and the sky still dark,
but everything was still bright and fun
with laughter and conversation.
It was leaving school late after rehearsals,
throats raw
and knees red.

It was squishing into the same booth
at the same restauraunt
and debating about what appetizers to get.
It was not having enough money in my bank account,
but not caring
because spending time with friends was priceless.
Sep 18

Introductions and Unravelling

please handle me with care.
Despite the sturdy experience
and seemingly thick skin,
I'm rather fragile
and I spook easy.
In short,
I'm like a green horse,
something completely raw
and wide-eyed
(you can decide
if it's awe,
or some combination of the two).

I eat twice a day,
because breakfast just sits like a rock
for the rest of the day.
I need regular watering,
or at least reminders,
because at times
I disregard the towering glass of water
just a few inches from my hands.
I should sleep at least six hours,
I sometimes miss the mark there,
so maybe just tell me
that the music I'm writing can wait,
or that a perfect score on homework doesn't matter.

I get wrapped up in the little things
If that occurs,
wrap me up in a warm blanket
(fresh from the dryer
is preferred)
Sep 18

Musical Blood

It's not synesthesia.
Not for me.
I think musicians
who love the craft
and have a steady metronome heart
see the world
in shades of music.
We feel the constant tick
of life
and watch as music unfolds before our eyes.

I don't close my eyes
for magnificent symphonies
and see shimmering fireworks
of colors
and swirling tonalities,
but I see scenes.
Clips of memories
sewn together
between thin black bar lines
and peppered with accidentals
instead of specks of dust.

I can't hear a song without remembering
the first time it hit hard.
I see midnight hikes,
a first kiss,
a burning match,
and clouds
I smell the ocean
and its biting salty winds.
I don't remember the faces,
just the sensations
and the world around me.

The emotions stick with me the hardest.
I can still feel my heart accelerando
Sep 15


We fell out of love.
Or rather, I did,
because in the foggy haze
of infatuation
and romanticism,
I wandered aimlessly
and never truly settled in one place.
I convinced myself that in your arms
was happiness,
was joy,
and the strength to face anything and everything.

I remember how you gently urged me to change,
told me to soften myself
and to float,
not to remain stony
and solid.
You refused to let me sit.
For awhile, that was okay.

I remember how we sat in a friend's car,
driving home quietly,
my hand in yours
and a twinge of pain
in my shoulder
as I twisted my arm so you could 
grip me by the fingers
and run a thumb across my knuckles sloppily.
It was a warm burn,
gentle but present,
and it ached.

The car rolled to a stop
and I was staring blankly ahead.
You said goodbye,
grabbed me by the jaw,