Body broken

into a hundred questions

I crave your embrace 

like an addict’s

punctured vein

calls out for morphine. 

I revel in the irony. 

Am I 

a lover in despair?


a user in recovery?

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A Confession to my Lover’s Lover

You do not know me, but I have done something terrible. For actions of guilty selfishness, I contrive this explanation.

I know that there are days where he is your only blue sky. I, too, have felt such radiant sunshine. He folds his lips to become one with your own and you grow wings. I have tasted it.

I can be just as cruel to other humans as my own demons are to me. An unspoken apology, tangled in the grip of my vocal cords, waits to be heard; but self-centered honesty lies at the forefront of my tongue.

I’m sorry, but I was monsoon season scattered by violent winds, torn at the flesh by my serrated surroundings. On a day of particular roughness, every cell that made me human reached out for his carefree serenity with a desperation that demanded to be felt.

Your delicate fingertips lingered in his skin. They touched me in his embrace. Your gentle laughter was the harmony in his song. I understand that I took a piece of your wholeness. I will never know how to apologize for tainting such happiness.

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What is a poet
but an assessment
of her love stories?

A vast understatement
loaded with careless imprecision

(I am constantly amazed
by the human impulse
to suffocate the world with labels)

And so the ultimate test
for a writer is
to explain the unexplainable

For instance–
the galaxies behind your eyes
that are riddled with constellations;
my self-consuming need
to explore that universe

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Inside of you
a universe
locked away

There must have been a key
swallowed by your mystery–
a constitution of labyrinths

I fall through trap doors
I am confused by hidden mirrors
as Alice

I wander
through your wonderland
befuddled by your world
head spinning around each turn

I am lost,
tell me, where do I fit?
Is it even possible?

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Dear John

gaps in our conversation
could hold the Atlantic Ocean,
its waves crashing
on our harmless phrases

and our surface words
would be pulled by the undertow
into the center of our caution
flooded with the unsaid

so before the gap gets larger
I will speak of our fading love–
the way words don’t come easy
and your expression is a mystery

I used to be able to feel your skin
and know it like braille
before its transformation
now I’ll take my explorations elsewhere

your coffee is on the kitchen table
no sugar
just the way you like it

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Society calls him fuckboy

she was born
with a fire
bellowing inside with
unapologetic identity

but don’t touch her
too quickly or she jumps
blood pumps faster
palms get sweaty
and war memories are drudged up
like a dead girl from a river

“don’t worry, you’ll like it”
plays back like a promise
cheek cold from bathroom tiles
head spinning from liquor toxins
oh but didn’t you hear?
delirium is the new sexy

priding himself
on the catch of the day
he stands over her
body swaddled by
a blood stained rug
a reminder that his hunger
is her responsibility

she meets his lion eyes
with fleece-coated submission
a slave
to her very fear

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I will not write of this tale
in beautiful words
because it is not a beautiful story

If it were visual art
it would be painted only in black
and white

black for the streams
of ebony tears
the contrast
of mascara scars
on porcelain cheeks
black for my grief
mourning the death
of my benevolent perception

red for the fragments
of a heart that shatters
red for the blood
spilling from its fractures
red for the anger
for his cowardice
red for the love he shared
with her
in secret

white for the snowfall
the night
he did not return
for the pale fear
in my face
mirroring snowdrifts
white for a canvas
I erased clean
white for this paper
I fill with absolution
white for my renewal

and this poem
lacking beauty
will be the last thing dedicated
to the man who has dedicated
nothing to me

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