I just wanted to be alive.
After all, you were sunlight
and my eyes were still tired
from just waking up.
I am waiting for time to
catch up with the weather.
3 AM used to feel so much warmer.
I see stars and think about
the patterns that run through
your skin,
the constellations that run through
your veins.
I will never have a chance
to trace them all,
but my God,
they are beautiful.

I write the endings first. The plot. The
destination-- but it changes
at some point in the middle.
After all, how could I
know where my writing
is headed when
I don't know
who I
am?

When I was young,
     my mom braided my hair with purple ribbons
     every Sunday morning.
Her fingers trembled, tangled in my curls,
     but she kept braiding, twisting, tying
     until it was to her standard.
Nights like this, I miss her
     as I braid my own hair,
     And I can't achieve the perfection
Of those trembling fingers.

I said I’d always be honest,
but I lie right through my teeth
when I say that I’m okay.
I guess it’s kind of like
how you said you’d
always want to stay.
I am constantly on a steady diet
of “goodbyes”, “farewells”, and “let go’s”.
At least I’ll never go hungry
with everyone always leaving.
I’m tired.
My head refuses to sleep.
My hands are never steady.
I used to think scars
were things that couldn’t heal,
but now I understand
they’re just reminders
of all the love that I could feel;
even if the vacancy sign
on my bones flickers dimly.
Memories keep clogging my veins,
inconsistencies have clouded my vision.
I’ve learned that honesty is relative
when words can change their meaning.

Did this happen last time?
I'm not really sure, our last
encounters seem entirely
imagined, as if I wrote them
in a book and fabricated them
elsewhere. Those memories of
you don't feel real, not even
that one last love note, where
I called you at the Rihanna
concert and held up my
phone when she sang



Stay.