If my head is pounding
it must be a Sunday morning.

Or a Monday, or
Tuesday, etc...

Or whatever.

Go elsewhere
I'm not your man
unlike the others
I can't pretend-

to your chorus
my ears I can't lend
leave me as I am
your song I can't chant

Arms should not be used for killing.
Arms should be used for hugging.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

One day, you will return

to the moment you left yourself behind.

To touch the outline of your absence

like a photograph you forgot to frame.

You’ll gather the scattered Saturdays,
the drawings no one kept,
the questions you were too afraid to ask,
the stories no one stayed long enough to hear.

And you’ll remember the slammed doors,

the silence between two people who once made you,

the friend who stopped texting back,

the laughter that vanished from the room.

You’ll walk through those rooms again,

dust in the corners,
and sit beside the stranger,
your hand on his own shoulder.

Only this time,
you won’t hush his laugh.

You won’t close the door.

It will be as natural as breath,

as quiet as light through the curtains

of a house no longer haunted.
This time, you’ll tell him you’re here now.

Every door will open.

And the only thing heard through the hallways

will be the laughter of a child

and the stars in the night sky,

laughing along.

This time, you’ll stay.

I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.

In the foreground, a
child’s marble, made of
clear glass, incandescent,
aglow with blue and
green streaks and swirls,
on a table cloth the color
of the ocean on a
bright day, and in the
background, a window,
the inky night sky, the
luminous but gray moon,
smaller than the marble,
flat, distant, and in
the glass, an adult’s
face faintly reflected,
small, ghost-like, colorless,
embedded in the
starless black space.