Is it wrong to feel sorry
About a circumstance
And a split decision,
Yet not regret it
In the slightest?
I could still see
The slump in his eyes,
The blue tinge
Creeping over his
Expression, trying
To hide it as
He smiled through
The rest of the night.
I will always feel bad
For being the cause
of that—and I’m not sure
If it makes it harder
Or only more reassuring,
Feeling this resolute
Peace that it was Right,
That it had to happen.

She spoke as if she wasn’t sure
If the words formed by her lips
Were really hers—only uncertainties,
Fairies flitting convoluted ideas
Through her mind’s eye.
Was it too much to say?
Did she truly want to give all
The pieces of herself away? 

It was too much. . .
They would not understand. . .
Dark lashes framing tired eyes,
Life was harder than she thought.
What if she wasn’t the unwavering light
She was supposed to be?
So many insecurities,
Yet none so powerful
As the red-limned thought
That Jesus would not know her,
And she would fall into the pits--
Welcome only to darkness
And the cold, cold smiles
Of the Enemies who succeeded.

I said sorry in my mind.

I reconstructed all of it--
Our past conversations,
The exchange made
Merely minutes ago—
I meant none of it,
What I really meant was. . .
. . .I know . . . Because. . .

Analogging a new answer
In my head, convincing myself
That I had said it all along—
Why do you still act
As if I did wrong? 


Or, perhaps, you brushed it off.
It was not strange to you.
It did not even stick out--
Because you couldn’t see 

All the things I could have said
And wished that I had.

I agonize over the words
That never leave my mouth,
Planning the past meticulously
Until it numbs the weight
That hangs over my chest
From the fumbled encounter
I remember so vividly.

I said sorry in my head,
Were my lips saying
Something different?
I said sorry in my mind.
But even then,
nothing is right,
nor organized,
did I even say sorry?
Or was it a fractured thought,
Underneath the pile,
Grown so high,
Of admonitions and guilt,
Screaming, yet never
Reaching the light?

The skyline was carefully cut paper,
Notebook lines ruling the windows,
Writing out the lives of figures
In apartments of faded graphite

And bright red pen; the letters
Are only their dancing forms,
Backlit by a tired orange glow--
Other characters blacked out,
With a scribbled X, squares
Of dormant life, flickering.
Is it another person moving in?
Or only someone who finds
Comfort in the darkness of night,
Staring at the leaking ceiling,
Born from tear stains
On rough-handled paper
And the hope that their words
Will somehow subdue the pains
From trying to decipher
this city

i lived in somnambulism,
Going through the motions,
Finding myself curled
ontop of the refrigerator,
Working surrounded
by walls of grey tears,
Seeing faces only as
muffled blurs of color,
Pinching my arm,
Banging on doors,
none of which worked.
I was awake only in my fear
of living the rest of my life
Submerged in the bleary
Tape of a damaged
camera roll.

I want. . .
. . .i can't
What is the disconnect?
how did i. . .
. . .get here
In this position?

A fire burns,
yet it is still
pleasureable?
Mind games,
and supple words,
He makes me
feel wanted.
But what part
of me
is he
after?

I only meant to understand.
The red on your hands,
your sick smile--
I thought if I could
find the justification,
the reason,
That I could sooth
The seething fire
Inside of you.
But as I digressed
farther and farther
Into the depths,
Searching for that
Part of you,
Trying to imitate it
And become the same,
I found that my steps,
my breadcrumbs,
Had been lost.
I pulled numbly at the ceiling,
trying to find the bulb that
Would bring back the brightness
But the glass shards smashed
under my feet, and now
I understood
Much.
Too.
Well.

A screeching train
reminiscent of an owl
And a screaming child
strands of experiences
All tangled together

Sometimes we forget
How many of our habits
Are in honor of someone