you make me want to read all of the books that have ever graced my hands so that maybe someday

I’ll be able to configure the words that I need to be able to describe how it feels when you 

grace my hands. there are things that were

before you that did not mean anything but now they mean something and 

my god I am so happy that they mean something like

night time on the porch or keeping a lighter around in case you lose yours.

The first time I met you, you turned bright blue and so I knew I would

end up with you, eventually: it’s why I persisted with my hands around

your strong shoulders-

only the most divine people are blue. You love me like blue, calm and passionatley

and when the first color I see in the morning is you- 

the gray doesn’t sulk into my bones, just quite yet.

blue is not sad when blue is the color of you, and you

are the color that paints over the blemishes of the sickened world that I live in.

baby, it’s all blue with you

and I don’t know how to say that, so I’ll read these books until my eyes ache

maybe someday I’ll know.


shit, dude.

it was a year ago,

well- a year ago in about two days

that i broke your heart by ending it all at your parents house. i do not know if i will ever speak to you again, but if all there is, all there ever can be is these words

then so be it.

who we physically are as human beings is finite but our words are not, so please listen as i apologize and let it be known forever- mark it in stone, i threw it all away. you never fucked up, i was the one

who couldn’t just be normal.

my youngest self was force fed the idea by picture books and stories told in front of my juvenile green eyes that

magic was not a thing of another world, that it could be- was, as near as just up the stairs.

if you believe anything for long enough you might as well be right, right?

i thought we were in love, but god- i was never able to tell the difference between being in love and needing to be needed.

and to me, love and magic were always fucking synonymous- as if that could ever be true.

i don’t know how to apologize for not ever loving you other than to say, i am sorry for not being able to fall in love with you

i am sorry for stuffing my throat with my own secrets that stretched back for years on end

i am sorry for the messy apartment and how i will not let you touch me hardly ever

i am sorry for crying more often than i didn’t cry, except that im not really sorry for that because we shouldn’t ever apologize for who we are,

says every therapist i’ve seen since i left.

i wonder if you ever go back to the compartment in between your ears where you and i are still together, and if you do

which parts you think about. my favorite are the fights about whether or not i am allowed to have ice cream for breakfast and the piles of clothes in the closet because i only wore boys clothes and you only wore my clothes

you see, i never really loved you in the sense that i wanted to kiss more than your cheek

but i loved you so deeply as a person- and im sorry because that’s pretty fucked up.

i hope youre up to the things that you really want to be up to these days like

gardening or holding someone beautiful because

shit dude, you deserve it.

i dont think this will ever reach you, but

shit dude, you deserve the world, and it deserves you too.


luck in the cold

I didn’t believe in god before I met you, and I’m not sure if I do now 

but it doesn’t seem like just luck that you know exactly how to hold my shoulders on bad days-

or what I really mean when I’m talking;

Luck is a good parking space and a sunny day, luck is winning a coin toss- heads up,

luck does not give you everything you’ve ever needed on a cold January afternoon.

I have undeniably always ached to be the girl of all of your in between moments-

of all of the times when there is nothing to do and nowhere to be but at least we can be together.

On a cold January afternoon, something- somewhere lead me to you. There is no sweeter place, no kinder place to be. 

It was a cold January afternoon, but my darling

it was so warm. 

the gardener’s hands

mama used to want help weeding the garden and 

mama and i used to always walk around with dirt under our finger nails- used to.

she and i went to a bar for the first time together when i was six 

and i sat in the corner and then after the bartender cut mama off after she tore a poster off the wall,

she drove me home and she looked beautiful in the dim headlights of other cars headed towards us.

mama used to want help weeding the garden. weeding the garden, 

she says, she will always say, is best done with a drink in the other hand

mama used to be so beautiful with the most beautiful hands and I think they were divine even with dirty nails

yet for years her hands were so wrapped around a bottle that she couldn’t be anything more than trapped

mama is addicted 

but she calls it self medicating and 

the other day I saw a car that looked like the one that she was driving us around in when she 

told me about her plan to divorce my dad so

i followed the car for a bit but then i realized that it was not her

she had crashed that car while she was 0.15 at 10 am last spring 

and i don’t know what i would have said had it even been her.

i don’t have a mama anymore but there is a lady living not too far away, maybe twenty or so minutes. 

she is who used to be mama. 

we change as beings: it is almost as if we die and come back to life as someone who is a better or worse version of who we have always been and so

if a tree falls in a forest and nobody is there to hear it, it probably makes a noise, but that noise doesn’t matter to anybody.

but if someone gives you a life and breaks you to pieces while there’s nobody there to see it

well, at least there is evidence that the tree fell.

cant leave yet

I thought on Sunday about leaving this earthly space. bliss and serenity

would set into my bones with every recurring thought of 

“if this was over it would be over and all of the pain passed onto me would melt into the palms of others. the palms of those who have crushed me in their palms” but 

in the back of my mind my index finger was being held by the smallest hand 

she has my eyes and sly smile that I often find trouble in hiding

has a heart with enough space for everything breathing and everything that has ever dragged their feet so softly

on these grounds

just like myself.

one day I will have a child and she is going to need me and 

I can’t leave yet. she came to me to tell me she needs me, 

they always told me that I cannot predict the future but they don’t know me and they 

don’t know her

I will name her the name of a warrior and I will kiss her temples before she rests and during the early hours

I will love her in the way that I cannot wait to love myself, in the way that I cannot wait to love her

I often feel as though I do not need myself but she is waiting. 

no it will not be soon but she is waiting to need me and 

I need to be needed. I love her already

She came to me

I never got to say goodbye

tell me: when i was first born, did you hold my hand, let me wrap my tiny fingers with skin the same as yours around your hands- did you feel something, or did you feel nothing at all?

in my first moments, first days, did you kiss my forehead, did you see that my eyes would look exactly like yours

tell me or tell me that you knew this was coming.

the last time i saw you- the first time you were sober in six years

it made sense that it was raining out. 

tell me too, in those first moments, when i first opened my eyes, 

did you think i would be something to be proud of and if, if you did;

when you saw me last, were you content with who i have grown to be?

when any scent of alcohol fills the air, sits on the inside of my throats though I will never crave it, i find myself anywhere but because

alcohol smells like when i hugged you, when you said you loved me too at night, 

comforted my first heartbreak, sent me off into the world at fourteen, 

i cannot stomach when alcohol invades the air near me because it feels as unrequited love feels

sitting on my left shoulder and digging into my collarbones with claws of

unfulfilled wishes.

you, broken glasses, and slammed doors are the sickened symphony of my youth.

these sounds, these sounds leave me with weight- did i replace my youngest years with my oldest-

learning to raise my own being, and

am i proud of myself now?

you did not give me much, perhaps a mental illness and the same green brown eyes,

you did not give me much- you did not show me how to love and so perhaps ive never known how to

you did not give me much and I do not believe that i was more than born of you

but i do forgive you because when you left, 

you twisted my heartstrings and broke them and made them a golden trophy,

and with that goodbyes are so much 

so much more familiar,

easier now. they are as simple as waking up and falling asleep.

deserved love

They say we accept the love we think we think 

we deserve but i do not know what there is to say for myself when I do not love myself

I spend so many seconds passed staring at a mirror wishing I were something 

better and though my outer being is just okay, the inner stuff the good stuff and all of the gears and pieces- it 

is so far from where I wish it to be.

So we accept the love we think we deserve but 

I don’t think I deserve much at all- I only owe it and should not accept but a closed door in return 

I wander around my own mind consistently with stained shoes and hope for the best. 

We accept the love we think we deserve but

I have not ever asked anybody to take off their shoes before coming into my heart. 

I keep the windows locked and the shades closed and they’ll think I’m sheltering away from strong winds

simply accepting the love I think I deserve.