lost in a mist of intuition.
sour berries disguised by smells sweet,
the sky is falling in:
i brush the horror from my face
with pressed powder.
hollow skeletons dance among fleshy hearts,
empty bones rattle in the wind.
whispers catching in the breeze,
haunting my eardrums, marooning my gaze,
enveloping vivid memory.
the salts of eyes lick at my wounds,
watering the bouquet of scars found
deep within chicken-scratched journals.


sweet smells of morning
rise, up the living room stairs.
father’s laughter
booming below,
among the pitter-patter of
brother’s socks; mother’s slippers.

i skim down stairs:
into the sun’s eyes.
the windowpane reflects.

the kitchen table:
stained with memory,
resting on the floors
that raised me.

across the room:
the same couch
that soaked amateur tears
and eased restless teenage minds.

behind bedroom doors:
my mother’s sewing machine,
that stitched my torn ideas of love
and made pillowcases of forgiveness;
my father’s wallet,
stashing photos
of memories, sunny days.

the hall closet:
containing dolls with knotted hair,
and building blocks
the size of my brother’s dreams.

this is what it feels like:
to be in love.
with a place.
a time.
an idea.



Her palms drag through the cold,
two winters embed in smooth skin.
Oak. Umber. Sepia.
The day’s rain haunts fingertips.
Strands of roots replace the memory of
old, easy days; restore hollow impressions.
His charcoaled stones left behind,
found lodged in shoes, sinking between
cracks. The ripples of his footprints stain
mossy rugs and rickety floorboards:
smudging half-hearted attempts at
steadiness. Her hands, muddied by
yesterdays, ease towards
the bathroom sink: lavender soap.


veins of snow cover
the forgotten leaves;
pressed to the ground
by the weight of familiars.
tree trunks peel away
layers of autumn
and summer
and spring;
revealing their winter coat.
roots dig into the hard ground
away from the air,
the crisp breeze,
rattling frosted branches.
sheets of ice settle in to the earths skin.



i. floating

you’ll want to chop your hair off
when he leaves,
to give you a sense of loss,
separate from that of your soul;

for a day you’ll feel weightless;

in the coming weeks when your hair is gone
and so is he,
you’ll be grieving two losses,
him and you

ii. wounds

i don’t think of him anymore.
i don’t think
of the way his jawline
sliced me like a knife when he left me,
his bare hands grappled at my heart
and soul
until i couldn’t feel myself anymore

he tore life out with words,
dug holes in my skin with his eyes.

i have regained my sanity.
my composure.
my heart is still missing

iii. iced

his voice rings in my ears
like alarms of past flames:
burning my memories.
smoke pours from my ears
at the sound of the name;

i gather the photos of us
contained in a box
lying under my bed.
one by one i place them
in my living room fireplace.
torching intuition

here i exist, years later
sparks still igniting
the bottom of my heart,
no liquid can extinguish
his heat,
from my bones.

v. delicate

i am a garden.
dandelions sprout from my bones
with every step,
trees grow in my lungs,
flourishing at every breath.

i am pruned.

poisonous weeds
are no longer to be planted
among my flowers.


Swimming, we haunted the lake at midnight,
beams transmitting – between us – the moonlight.
Take me to these nights of ignorance, sweet
fairies dancing in the tiniest creases
of two minds. Miles of daylight seemed to taint
paired perceptions as we lay in soft wait
for the envelopes of time that contained
our thoughts: faded, softened, discolored; waned
with the setting of the sun, rising in
the realities of our seamless skin.


I lay myself down in the icy snow,
my chilled body shutters under the weight.
Curves of color flash and sink and collide.
Navigational. Observatory
of skylines, haunting the distance with their
radically inseparable lines.
Beetles burrow into the ground below.
A warp of orange paints the way towards
silence. I rise above the sunken floor.