how are you?

Catching up sounds like
awkward wrapped
in comfortable
when it’s with you.
I am learning how to miss anything
I’d never want back.
I am learning how to miss anything
I’d never want back
in a louder voice than a whisper.
Pretending things are easier
as a sign to anything,
but mostly me, that
things can become easier.
That avoiding just means (k)not.
Gravity, still, loving me
straight into the ground.



A piece of me has to die to live
in love with you.
We don’t talk about the
days turning into months.
I want to say it’s not a big deal.
You tell me it’s not a big deal.
Desire makes shapes across
the ceiling of my room.
Across my bare skin.
I keep my mouth closed. Keep
my hands loose. You make me
so happy I can almost pretend
that wilting piece of me is an orchid.
With a note saying “Ignore me
and I’ll be fine. Once a week
watering is fine.”
You make me so happy
I am trying to turn lilies
into orchids. Tucked away
the notes saying
“Get me wet to the roots.
Let’s get those hands dirty.
I am not meant to be easy”.
You make me so fucking happy
I tuck away the note saying
“Baby I’m trying to thrive”.


It’s happening
suddenly again.
The slight pang in my stomach.
An ache. A pretend thread
pulling gently. A doctor would
ask for more symptoms.
Tell me what other signs
to look for just to make sure
it’s nothing serious.
That I already know.
I was never anything serious.
As for signs, I try not to
be surprised anymore. Try
not to be startled at the
entwined pieces that
you’ll never know.

I’m still thinking of that painting that historians can only provide speculation.
I think art whispers to you
asking you to feel inside.
I try to visit even less.
That painting leaves me restless.
I want to know.
I want to know.

I hope I left you uneasy.
I’m tired of feeling foolish
that’s the honest truth.
But the body is a museum and there
will always be a spot for you.
You are the picture in the corner easily missed. The one
I found that day. Sometimes
we shadow the things
we can’t face directly.

if you feel a pang
that feels like an ache
that feels the way dust looks
caught between swirling and
settling to the floor
know that it’s me.
Mirror I hope you are well.


Rumination is now digital.
Misery’s greatest gift.
“This is for your own good,” they say
as if anyone knows anything at all.
Did the tree really ever fall then?
Was it in Sept? No, December?
No way to tell doesn’t mean there’s no way to remember.
I still hold the spaces that weigh me down.
Still have the things I’ll never look at.
A hidden box labeled “esophagus”.
Hidden thoughts named “avoid”.
I want to hold on as if
something else is actually holding back.
“This is for your own good,” I say.
I hope, I think, I know.
I honestly don’t know.
Facing denial I gently hold her hand
and say “It’s time.”


I’m in love like honeymoon over and
baby being next to you is the best
best fucking part of my day
and yes my humming hymns are for you
and no I don’t know when I changed
but you say you want something and I think “me too”. I’m screaming inside
with love for you and no you won’t
hear it all the time. Something
about skin and lips and doors
that can’t open easily.
Peek under the door and know it’s
all for you. Put your ear to the floor,
baby it’s all fucking for you.


Reframing words around my tongue

like hands rolling glass back and forth.

Reframing in a way that does not sound

like I want to cry.

Awareness is the understanding

that there is a knot of different colors

evoking emotions that I need to untie

so I can understand.

What is an emotion

that has different voices?

maps of self

Under a layer of me
is another and another.
Look I don’t make the rules.
Blame the stars for making
me oh so fucking me. Looking
into birth charts, that agree
I hide too many things,
I don’t even fucking know why.
Let’s be honest that is a lie.
There’s power in knowing so
I’m always running towards it.
There’s power in saying things
out loud and it still scares the shit
out of me.