(torrential downpour)

“It is beyond question that this would further complicate the situation, but I would also understand if you decided to go.”

— A therapist practicing impartiality


You are a pastime that I cannot let go,

and making mistakes is a dangerous hobby.



Remembering who I am is a hot-cheeked, sinking feeling.

Pins and needles, butterflies in the ventricles.

Blood flow returning to areas that had lost feeling,

that had been presumed dead.


Have you ever been thirsty and drank much water so fast that your stomach hurt?

Things that you need are not always comfortable.

Sometimes things that you need happen all at once.


Sometimes they do not feel like giddiness,

but like the dizzying disorientation of being up too high on a tall building.

I am crashing back to reality.

You revel in my fall.

6.21.18 (jenga and the price of infidelity)

My first move was jimmying a piece from the bottom. It was all about strategy. You destabilize the foundation first, and every move after is a risky one.

From that point on, both of us wince and grimace at the difficulty of removing more blocks from the precarious structure. Like it’s a game we’re playing as equals — just trying to keep the whole thing from toppling over.

But my first move was determinate. We were working in the landscape I created.

And from that first move, there was no going back.


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

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.