The Poem I Didn’t Want To Write (I hoped this wouldn’t be about you)

I said
they were all sad.
That they were about
pillow-hearts ripped
at the seams, and feeling small
enough to be folded and tucked into
your shoe–forgotten about until
one day I’d tickle your toes, and
you’d pull me out–soft and
worn at the edges.
That I hoped they’d
never be about you.

And yet, I am
overstuffed, spilling over with
all of the words I wished
I’d pushed off the edge of
my lips
before I walked away. I am
praying on this paper
just to keep myself
sane,
just to keep myself from
crying about one more person
I’m supposed to stop loving;
one more person
I’m supposed to forget.

Broken Heart

The halves of my heart are in a fight.
The left will not speak to the right.

Reality

Memories fade to dreams and dreams disguise themselves as memories; soon I cannot distinguish between the two.

I Think I Love Him

I’m okay
except for
the fact that when you ask me if I am,
instead of thinking about him,
I cannot stop thinking
of how your eyes are the color of
burnt caramel.

But if it’s frozen and full of tar, it can never break

When your eyes freeze and turn to ice
I need to run or
I am impaled by your words
like darts—the poison
seeps into my blood stream and
I carry the venom
inside me until it claws at me
from inside my veins, restless
to get out.

So much
venom thickens my blood to tar and
fills the cracks of my heart
with lead,
and the only way to forgive myself for
being cold enough to freeze you, too, is
to let it out.

So when they scratch
and wriggle in my veins,
I cut them loose and
watch the black venom
drip out.

Two In One

I knew the lonely parts of your heart.
They were my campgrounds
when my walls began to burn and
the ash and smoke threatened
to suffocate me beneath my
crumbling ribcage.

When it was winter in my heart,
and my veins became
frozen red rivers,
you always had a fire going
in yours.
I would huddle inside the
crevices between
your atriums and swim in your
bloodstream until I, too, was red
underneath your skin.

All The Caves Are Empty

I scream into this empty cave
hoping to hear your voice in return,
but all I get is my echo.

Why do I look for you
where I know
you will not be found?

Life’s Not A Cassette

I’m torturing myself trying to rewind a tape that doesn’t exist.

You Break It, You (Don’t) Buy It

I. She was a wide-eyed wonder with
a virgin neck of porcelain.
Her body did not know what it was like
to be dropped on the concrete.

II. You’d put her in your pocket
while you walked, wrapped
in bubble wrap and styrofoam, and
only exposed her
when you needed the time.
But you’d always wrap her up again;
you could never be too careful.

III. All this
wrapping and unwrapping has become
tedious, and your
fingerprints are fogging up her eyes
anyway, so maybe there’s
no point.

IV. You walk with her in your palm; swinging
your arms to
the rhythm of her breath.
She’s covered
in stickers and flower
thorns.

V. She slips from your fingers and
hits the ground.
Shards of her veins
explode on the pavement.
Her eyes glaze over–sticky
with your fingerprints.
Her neck is covered in
blossoming violets and roses
you willed to bloom with
your breath.
Her hands are
cold and cracked.

VI. She is too far
beyond repair,
and all you know how to do
is destroy.

VII.You step on her and
walk away.