Untitled pt. 4

We’re crammed in a room that’s stuffy and too small.
I’m drowning, I’m falling, I’m

picking up the pieces
you left scattered on the floor.
Shards of glass and empty promises
poke holes in my shoes and scar the arches of my feet.
With every step I’m locked in those words
you whispered in the shadows and let fizzle
when the sun rose and the lights flicked on.

You threw me headfirst into that black hole trapped
between your ribs. Tumbling,
with bruises appearing around my neck
and blood seeping from between my fingers
you walked on, taking reckless steps
and feeding that dark part of your head
you refuse to illuminate.

Untitled pt. 3

It’s foggier, it’s all foggier —

some nights
I’ll wake with a sinking feeling in my chest:
remembering the ways you pushed my hands
further from my face and into your mattress
until I fell asleep,
cheap tastes and soft words still
tiptoeing across my lips, haunting my eardrums

— the way mist lingers after downpour,

rain hanging in the air and
pooling in the soles of my chuck taylors,
soaked in old poison.

The roses on my porch smell louder with leftover
rain slipping off the edges of their petals,
and the wisps of clouds shift from
mute grey to vibrant, blinding white.

Untitled pt.2

I shatter my eardrums to love songs you showed me
months ago with melodies that echo
like your sleepy sunday morning voice
and lyrics that sound like a letter I could’ve
written you in my sleep.

For hours I’m highway humming,
truck trailer tracking,
streetlight staring –

I trace the constellations in the sky with my eyes
until I find replicas of the chocolate freckles
that scatter your shoulder blades,
the moon lays in the sky like your hands on my waist:
soft and calm and orbiting.

I watch the hills rolls and the sounds fade:
muffled farmland to city lights,
pale yellow hills turn to emerald mountains
the color of your eyes in the dark.

Primary Nostalgia

daffodils float on the aching windowsill,
heavy footprints and soft skin
sink into floorboards and rickety stairs,
the oak and cedar sigh in the sun.

green eyes blend between the leaves. whispers
linger in the trees and hide behind
bitten branches. tiny toes slide through mud
and laughter hangs in the air for hours.

red-checked button ups sway on wires in the breeze,
surrounded by faded jeans and holey tshirts.
the missouri flows in the background
and summers submerge in the currents, drifting.

feathered wings soar in hot skies, chirping, landing
softly in the tangles of apple trees and
aching backyard patios. empty lawn
chairs groan with age – eight legs, unmoving.


I spilled red wine on the carpet –
a pool of honeyed maroon. My hand went limp.
I wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

I fall asleep on the couch dreaming of your eyes,
swimming in those little flecks of jade and cool forest green.
I spilled red wine on the carpet.

I hang my harried heart on the clothesline in my backyard.
It dries up, unbeating, and floats away in the wind.
I wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

I’m lost in the daytime: unfocused, blurred, colorless.
Evenings become stained lips and slippery fingers.
I spilled red wine on the carpet.

I drag my feet in the dirt road behind your apartment:
the sun sinks into the clouds, the sky turns grey. I turn grey.
I wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

Your fingertips haunt the outlines of my face, leaving
crimson fog and ghosts on my cheekbones;
Again, I spilled red wine on the carpet.
Again, I awake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.


I wake up and the first thing that hits me is the song you showed me weeks ago with the upbeat melody and the lyrics that sound like a letter i could’ve written you in my sleep.

I breath in and smell that cologne you wear on mondays and that songs chorus repeats in my head and i sigh. I sigh because you’re streets away and  wake up every morning thinking of your day or last night and not the way i cut my hair for you to notice.

I spread my love tight and too thin like a twin sized sheet on a queen sized mattress. The corners pop and pull and i tug too hard. The edges rip. The seams split, falling through my fingers.

I’m exhausted anymore. I wake sweaty and confused and for a brief moment i forget that you and your stupidly long eyelashes exist and the way my whole room smells after you shower doesn’t haunt the little hairs in my nose.

I want you to crack open. Crack open your smile and realize that it doesn’t have to be scary. I’ll leave my nightlight on and keep my masks in the hall closet so i don’t scare you away. But you have to walk through the front door and see what i look like. Look.

I walk home at the end of the day to write about you and listen to music about you and dream of your hands and you walk home and fall asleep: hard and silent and dreamless.

I want to crawl in bed and feel your toothpaste breath on my forehead. I want your eyes to flutter at 2am when i’m wide awake because i’m cold. I’m cold but i’ll fall asleep if your soft subconscious hand is on my waist.

I die. You siphon your hair through your fingers and look dead into my eyes and i die.


i watch the hills roll
and the sounds fade,
with your name spiraling
inside me;

you’ve left me here, like this,

with your eyes tracing my dreams
and words clouding my hands.

i hope, as i sit with your mind on mine,
that you remember the way
my hair smells in the rain,
and how my hands grazed the outline
of the stubble you refuse to shave.

because with every sip of coffee
i remember the taste of your lips
and the way you looked at me
when i smiled

The Stranger


like clouds, hot smoke
rises above the street.
he leans against the cracks
in the wall, his grey
eyes following the black
pavement where his shoes

meet the other shoe
prints. flickers of grey
light seep between cracks
in the dark black
alleyway. the street
crushes the smoke

from the end of his smoked
cigarette. the black
matches hidden in his shoe
light a new stick of grey.
a smile cracks
his face, the street

absorbs him. he sits in the street.
his fingers lock and crack.
pouring from his lips, the smoke
billows towards the grey
clouds. his eyes meet his shoes.
in the distance, black

steam rises, black
stacks that reach above the street,
above his shoes.
farther still, a smoked
crow flies into the grey
clouds. a heavy crack

goes through the sky, cracks
of light hit the sky, rain scatters the street,
leaving his aged shoes
soaked through. his grey
eyes meet the sky and go black
from the smoke.

he rises. his shoes hit the cracks
in the dying street made grey
from the smoke; the clouds of black.


i am the dream,
with heavy eyelids and soft fingertips
that haunt the curves of my face.
two decades of sun
lie in the golden wisps
that fall onto my feathered pillow.
my blushed cheeks and frozen features
frame days of fairies and springtime,
a pastoral haze of pinked flowers, blued skies:
lost in mistakes.

my soul follows the horizon,
split by unmovable mountains
and setting suns,
later spotted with the stars
that illuminate even the
darkest creases of my mind.
no window can catch sight
of what lies in my nettled psyche –
i am cursed,

but with this dream,
i will kiss my own palms
and divide my own darkness.