There’s something about the way water swishes around in the muddied glass

Centrifugal force

Never cleaning the perimeter

No friction

Only circular motion

Around and around


In the aisle, I looked up the color for apologies; for resignation

I cut the stems in the kitchen, picking pieces off our floor before you saw them land

I had always been so good at that

I wonder where my talent for neutrality is hiding


I have not seen her lately

I’ve only noticed the aging face of someone immersed in shattered pretense

Scarred by broken glass

Water cannot swirl if soapy fingertips drop the vase

And you caught me red handed



The rings feel so hollow

Just like forever seems hollow

As if the cost of my inner thighs is beer

And mixed drinks after, to make the night go wrong

I do not feel traces of him on my body

Seedlings in the spring air cling to me more then he ever will

And you are my whole self

You are embedded in every follicle

You are the precipitate of heart beat

I feel you in my breath

You are my forever

The forever that I pray outweighs my tomorrow

I will keep waiting for you

At the back door

At the front door

At the landing of the stairs

6.7.18 pt. 2

Are you enamored by the way light refracts off the surface of my skin

Is that distracting to you


You are preoccupied by the contents of your own imagination

There is no reality in us

And I wish there were less


I think if I were further from you, the words would come to me

I would write our friendship like a eulogy


If I get a dick pic I’m leaving the state


If you take in a full enough mouth of smoke, you may convince yourself it’s something worth swallowing.

That singed tongue and throat are life-sustaining.


Is that not what he told you?

When he blew it into your mouth?


You said you weren’t hungry anymore.

You said you were content to die wearing only his perceptions of you, fitted to your cold body like a corset.

(Cinched & pulled)

You said of all of the ways to commit suicide, this was by far the prettiest.

4.6.18 (white cars, late beginnings, and the uncertainly of the tightrope)

The tension evaporates

or collects in droplets,

beading on the leather of my boots

or muddying the ground beneath my feet.


Sometimes openness

does not feel like freedom,

and the anticipation framing your face

reads like disappointment.


I will collect myself.

Try not to swat or kill anything

before it lands.

Even if that thing scares me.


I will write belonging as a fleeting thought,

before the page moistens, limpens, and corrodes.

I think I am meant for an existence,

and am driven to unearth rather than tread above it.


But my wrist aches.

I will splint it until tomorrow.





This body — this prison

Confined against my own free will


The eyes I catch in the mirror are not my eyes

Do not reflect my sense of being or say what I want them to say


I’ve been struggling with the idea of identity

The idea that I need one

That I can’t just live in a symbiotic relationship with my own impermanence

Rather than paint and adorn, everyday attending to this shrine to social acceptance


I wonder if the voices in the kitchen sound like my voice

Are we all just taking turns feigning security?


I’m questioning how I relate to even myself