There’s something about sharing my feelings 
that always makes me think of the circus. 
Tightrope performances of my tongue,
“tamed” wild things and my ribcage.
The contortionists, how the body can bend
to please others. 
Suspense building, you’ve practiced a thousand times. What could go wrong? 
The questions you must ask. 
The spotlights always make me nervous.
Smoke and mirrors, I’m sometimes 
confused too. The rules, like don’t 
tell them which staff is new. 
Padded locks, backstage is restricted. 
So are some doors, saftey precautions in place.
Drum roll surprises.
The lines between reality and fantasy. 
The importance of accuracy.
The importance of accuracy.
The importance of accuracy.



She called you Rapunzel and you
swish your tied hair back and forth,
swish your hips back and forth.
Show me pictures of your rats and how you look when the sun hits your face. Warm.
I want to know what makes you
smile at night like it’s morning
and you have the entire day
and you want it. 
Tell me how more about what impossible must be possible, mathematically speaking of course.
How our recent discoveries mean more is 
boiling under the surface. 
I watch your freckled face like
I watch the stars. With curiosity 
and awareness of the space between us.


I spent the day clawing at the ground.
I pulled you out by the roots. 
This needs to be done.
This needs to be done by my hands. 
You do not deserve to be here. 
You do not deserve to stay. 
I grab salt to purify 
the ground. I’m reclaiming it all. 
I want nothing of you left.
I salt the ground, not to keep it bare,
you will have no memorial space.
It will be like you were never here.
You do not deserve to be remembered. 
I salt the ground to kill anything I could miss.
Kill the current but only because 
I’m making room.
Life will grow again. Spring comes every year.
You just won’t be in it.


Reality on a spoon
ready for swallowing. Advised
not on an empty stomach. 
Advised with water, with patience, 
and preferably a steady hand
(I only need one,you can take the other).
The warning label says
“results will vary”.
I guess what I really want to know
is if your colors become dull or brighter after.
You’re green isn’t mine but I’d love it
if you described it anyway. 

temperature change 

In my dream there’s trash in my pockets
what I’m trying to say is
I will always have things I don’t want to share.
If secrets were layers could you 
understand it’s the only way I stay warm.
I tuck in the bad which means 
I tuck in the real. I try to remember this.
I think I was born with a heavy heart
and enough words, strung together,
to reach the stars.
I’m sliding off my jacket now.
Even though looking at you
makes me feel cold.
I’m taking my shoes off
because I want to stay. 


Egg shells, invisible, placed 
inside the human skin. 
I try to hold everything with care, I’ll fail, 
it’s how we are designed. 
This story isn’t always sad,
 just wanting to be heard.
Our heart can grow so full
it shapes our palms upwards, ready.
It bends back impulses.
It molds the arms for embrace. 
Melodies and harmonies of our bodies 
but you have to learn to listen. 
We are like clay, hardened when left out,
look for the ones left out,
we have enough water and gentle fingers
to loosen what has turned stone. 
You feel the egg shells when you learn 
to feel each other. Learn how to connect, 
skip past skin, hold the soul. How
I sigh into hands that know how to hold me.
Only so many places I want to ease into, 
one of them can be you. 


My words for you are always the same.
I fill them full and place them on
my tongue then swallow. Every breath
I’m taking carries this weight. 
Travels past the trachea, 
squeezing rings out as you go down.
I don’t know how you soaked the roots 
but you’re in the trunk of my chest,
four branches spread across. 
Gather the foliage I try to shed.
You burrowed so deep, I feel the holes 
as I breathe. Feel the spaces you leave. 
Heart flutters sound like wings.
Lungs holding on, taking in but never out. 
I’m trying to get you out,
trying to move on.
Nameless unless I dig. 
Stare at the soil of my skin. You 
dissipate like fog, confusing me each time. 
I can’t tell if I’m digging you out or up.
It all just feels the same.


When you say you want to touch me
I think of paintings. Now
I just think of paintings.
Thinking of sinking ships
and us in them. Holding hands.
I’m afraid of holding dead things.
I can try for you,
slippery hands, throbbing chest, warm skin.
Showing up to keep you fed.
The ship won’t go anywhere but down.
I’ll stay longer, if you tell me
you know that.
I want to hold you with love
but darling we were never in love.
We were never going anywhere
but I packed my bags all the same
because it’s always like this.
Never knowing where I’m going,
where we are going.
I just wanted someone to hold my hand,
hold me down. Honeymoon phase,
always so sweet. You drew me in,
now I’m slipping out.
Can you think of me? I’m
thinking of you and that’s why
a part of me wants to hold this
till the end.


The chest pains mean conflict 
mean look inside. 
“Aren’t you tired?” I whisper to my body.
I cradle myself like I can disappear.
Cradle myself how I want to be held. 
Cup my tears before they hit the ground.
Accidentally reabsorb what I’m trying 
to let go. Sticky heavy residue marks this body. Sadness seeps late at night, alone
is how I collapse. 
I turn the lights off. Say it’s just shadows, 
just the moonlight dancing on my skin. 
Just the dark, just that night, just this night.
“I’m just so fucking tired” I whisper into myself.