poetry

I used to think that being alone
was unbearable,
but now that I’ve pushed almost
every single person I’ve ever held dear
away from me,
I really don’t think it’s that bad

think twice before you say, stargirl;
you may not be ready.
her name slurs from the lips of broken souls,
a question that tastes likes champagne in their mouths
a burning fire to warm their numb, blue fingers.

I snapped a picture of you the other day when you weren’t looking
capturing the entirety of your face
as you lay oblivious and a victim
incarcerating the elegant flare of
your cheekbones

I’m stuck here, staring over the edge
I am my freedom, that was my pledge
Why can’t I just
Jump

Holding sunburnt breath, across bow valley
i thread & braid for the first time,
yr only acres away, across bow trail
    ought i stand up from my desk? reach across chasm & confess?

Under the late moon,
Would it be cozy or small?
you drove me with the scooter,
Like the way your write poems,
for trips to 7-Eleven,
in Moleskine notebooks,
it was two in the morning,
the profound way you use words,
with stationery;

I went to college like a bird swimming
like a woman burning in the 1700s
or like an atheist rising
I cut my nails like a narcissist killing himself
as if I’m a vampire taking a stake to the heart

I don’t let myself drive past dark
The black sky
Moonlight
Dozing off through passing lights.

Please understand I am not what you want.
‘What is a dream’ they ask of you. What is it that your heart desires?
And you imagine me.

Rattle, Bump, Thump
My head clunks against layered glass
Double panes reflect a stranger
She looks a lot like the past

There are pills under my nightstand.
The same ones tearing holes all over the house.
They’re tucked away in darkness and dust, forgotten caverns that only I can enter.
The same ones that wake us at night.

I hear the souls,
They never leave,
When I close my eyes,
They are in my dreams,
I see them watching over me,
Every night,
Waiting for me,
To take my final flight.

Peaceful lazy flakes
Silently land on my cheek
Cold. Then, cold again

When I am gone, weep not for my soul
My goal was never to live forever
Instead, I make way for other days
Days when I shall be at peace

I dream of the lone mulberry tree again, the green hue of its leaves strikingly bright against the same desolate landscape, alive in the barren and cold arctic atmosphere, domed-sky tinted grey.

the early years are nothing but pictures
snapshots of a different life lived

There are at times, the good nights—
    where there’s felt the softness of lilacs,
    their color deciding to fill up the morning sky.
There are blossomed animals, soft and dreary-eyed,
    I witness them from the window of my room,
    the glass felt more like a clear. heavy water.

Perpetually fixed, perfectly placed in the
ripeness of summer,
forever teetering on the cusp on June and July;
The body is heavy, flushed, rife - youthfully fertile and
yielding younglings monthly
tenderly sweet, thickly rich as
they dangle from outstretched limbs;

walking at midnight in the city of lights
the street lights flickering with the stars above
a gentle breeze intertwines with my hair
feeling leaves crunch their little deaths
neath my feet on the cobble path

Birch peek with bark eyes,
The hunter shoots, something falls.
They saw nothing here.
Such silent centennials,
All death merges into one.

Who would not salvage the dust for the poor,
or whatever the change may be for the well-versed men in dollars?
So be it, the Roman giants or Russian oligarchs whom search for vast heaps of green in corporate monasteries,
chime in, fairing equity, for their Wallstreet yachts, oligarch suits, and whatever their norm might be.

A thousand pictures away,
Drive together up hot rust
About we play luscious TV
You trudging on garden bed
Lust please rip him into meat.

The weeping lady in the ivory dress, within the high pitch fever dream,
screams at the kettle with bare feet, while wandering the grasslands.
The blonde man, strolling on top of graves, where the caskets hide, greets her.
He hands her a golden plate of vegetables and offers to peel her skin.

Each day, we inch closer towards the supermassive black hole That gives us a stability, and will one day inevitably consume us.

Dear diary, you are completely worthless.
For the past fifteen years I’ve filled yr pages
I’ve hurt my hand trying to describe
Each & every joy & trauma to you.
In intricate detail.
These endless notebooks that compromise yr soul,
Yellowed paper, faded graphite, bleeding ink
A lifetime of stories, of people, of places
All of which don’t matter.
Or rather, will be forgotten.
In spite of my best efforts throughout the years,
Why didn’t you just tell me?

Hello, I’m glad I wasn’t late today. And then we begin again, again.
For the day cannot break without me paying the usual toll:
The willpower required to unearth myself from these cotton bedsheets,
The mechanics laying underneath my arm to lift this red plastic toothbrush,
The thousands of hours of labour that allowed this cereal to go
from rural farmfields to this urban decay.
The quaint characteristics of trying to figure out today’s newspaper
with ten-thousand serif words spilling bad news that’s yet to come.

It begins with the apples, first light then heavy—
budding greens slowly becoming hardened reds.
Drooping the busy branches of many autumn trees
who have yellowed and oranged their way towards asleep.