If you’d held me more,
Maybe I wouldn’t have ended up
Watching an overdose on the kitchen floor.
If your voice had been just a little softer,
Then maybe older men
Wouldn’t be what I sought after.
If your hands had been less cruel,
Maybe I wouldn’t have to work so hard
To avoid ending up like you.

The pen was in your hand!
You carved your way through the pages,
dancing through the exposition.
You reveled in the confrontation—
unaware of the impending ******,
unafraid, you read along.
But you’d have never guessed the resolution.
So tell me, oh author of fate:
as you bury your friends,
is your curiosity satiated?

Hallowed bones cracked in the fireplace,
Predicting the sorrow of this hollow home.
The frayed ends of the ancient windchime,
With one bell still glistening on the rotted porch.
The kitchen smells of anger and clove oil;
The cast iron *** has boiled itself dry,
While the kettle screams on the stove.
Hands cracked and bruised,
Pulling back the tattered bed covers,
Dusting off yesterday's woes to make room for today.
Make snow angels out of the drywall from the ceiling.
Pipes rattle in the walls,
Announcing your midnight thirst.
Awake before dawn to get a bath first—
The only surety is the warmth of the water.
Dressed in the clothing of those much older,
Threadbare, feeling the cold before opening the door.
Worn boots crunching in the fresh snow;
Just a glance back,
Looking at home.

Can one be hopeful without being a liar?
That line is as thin as the silk of a spider
Hope left glistening, like a drop of morning dew
Praying that the thread won't break too soon
Would a fly in the web find sunrise beautiful, too?

I’m awakened with fluttering eyelids,
warmth already draped over me—
tendrils of light reaching,
bursting into every gap they find.
Beckoning me closer,
into the bright,
basking in the touch
that leaves spots on my skin
where I’ve been kissed too much.
A little note for down the road.
We flirted too long, but did so with ease.
Now I’m left in an ever-blushing state!
Oh! The Sun is such a tease!

I wake to fairy bells and even breathing beside me.
The sun looks groggy, and steal its face as I rinse my own.
Quiet tiptoes pirouette through the kitchen,
silent hands pack lunch in glass boxes.
With three kisses goodbye, and the twist of a lock,
I spend the day in this little box.
I have the freedom to do anything in this luxurious cage.
Whatever my heart desires
is at my fingertips.
Fingertips move with a technical grace,
finding the image in the wood to trace.
Sitting at a laptop, typing away,
hoping to feel pride of the self one day.
The sun sits high and now so am I;
as I bake breads and cookies at 375.
I’ve cleaned up Hot Wheels nine times today,
but they're all out again,
as I watch the boys play.
Evening comes, and love comes home.
Dinner and a movie, a nightly routine.
A few hours with my brother
is better for us both than it seems.
The stars lay glistening
as I lay listening
to the thuds in the chest
that I memorized long ago.
A few Hail Marys lull me,
as I hear the next day call me.

You cut down the forest, tree by tree
to build another villa.
Cut the heads from each blade of grass
to keep in accordance with regulation.
Cut the thorns from the rosebush
to keep it pretty, defenseless.
Cut down the dandelion
to make it easier to breathe;
once medicine, now just a ****.
Cut the boys’ hair short,
cut the girls’ wings shorter,
to make for the perfect family photo.
Cut the native tongue from the migrant’s mouth
to create cohesion in culture.
Cut the stillness of the night
to make way for off-ramps and neon lights.
Cut your health below expectation
for a paper check, riddled with taxation.
Cut your love close
to save yourself some heartbreak.
Cut that which does not serve,
as long as you continue to serve.
Keep cutting away
and calling it progress.

I’ve always looked at birds
with the sort of jealousy
that can only be felt
by a creature who’s stuck to the ground.

I’ve clawed at my shoulders,
I’ve left welts on my back.
Still…
There’s no wings to be found

Wishing for bones
that are deft and hollow,
while carrying ones instead
filled with blood and marrow.

No feathers protrude
from beneath this skin.
Just a humanly ache
that the birds cannot borrow.

Oh, what a joy it must be
to be a magnolia
planted along the city street,
to be met each and every night
by beautiful passing faces
under the twinkling city light.

Oh, what a blessing it must be
to be a dragonfly,
gliding on delicate wings
over the land, eternally free,
listening as every bird sings.

Oh, what a pleasure it must be
to be a summer cloud,
basking in the sun’s glory,
wearing sunshine like a shroud.

Oh, what a grand thing to be
a tree in a meadow,
holding a swing.

Oh, what a great thing to be
alive in the sun.

Oh, what a perfect thing to be!

the kitchen is a mess darling
and right now so am i
unfurled by your words
like a spool of yarn
pulled from the center
you pull me in closer
your eyes glisten
like the glasses on the table
empty now, lipstick on one edge
as you pull me to the counters edge
your hushed whispers like rain
falling on the roof in a summer storm
gentle, provoking me toward magic
your breath lingers on my lips
like wine and saffron
your touch warm
like a shot of bourbon
pull me in closer
closer still
one of these messes
will just have to wait