some people become walking tombs,
others swallow the sun.
my mother's hands were funeral flowers
and my heart an early grave.
all i tasted in my throat was ash
and the world's decay.

we're broken glass
a cerulean summer
that makes you sigh
under waves
of ocean

just be more than your body.
more than blood that runs in currents
and arms and fists and teeth
that cut through midnight predators.
because when they steal your body;
it isnt so bad.

and the morning was dripping
landing in fragments
not quite a quiet hurricane.
she was more mist than anything
and nostalgia has you in its grip,
running its soft lullabies across your neck
the goosebumps telling a story no one ever
knew.
now you hang open in your past
and your skin becomes the rain streaked
window pane
soaking through
the living room curtains.

i feel like a bad person
when your eyes turn
into reflections of the sea
and i know that it's because of me.

i could be beautiful if you tore
apart my limbs
reached inside tender skin
dusted off the ashes
cluttered on the surface of
my heart.
because maybe then you'd see
all the love that was there,
and that could make
anyone
beautiful.

lonely on the road
isolated, cracked asphalt
ground zero
Picking apart my skull
so my brain may expand
and breathe;
and fall into the heavy
vortex of my throat
where the universe
lumps itself