the handling of paper

I know what this looks like
on paper. I do not mean
to hurt you. Yet
intentions only go so far.
I hope you stay away from the
paper cuts of my words
and thoughts. Know I do not
say them to be cruel. Though
it’s okay if you think I’m cruel.
This chest has started to buzz
and I know what this looks like
on paper. Karma never skips me,
does that make you happier?

The only consolation prize I have
for you.



I light the trash on fire. 
Toss it into a can. 
Hold still as flames breathe. 
The curtains are on fire. 
I’ll say I don’t know how it happened.
Can you believe this statement to be true?
Does it matter if I’m being honest?
I go to your house and together 
we live inside your room. Sometimes
I think you’re too good for me and 
I’m just being selfish. 
I watch the flames.
I hate the heat but I want 
to stay. Watch how fast before
the rooms on fire. Your body is a 
home I’ve never been in. So yes 
it’s scary but we both know 
it’s never the fire that kills you.
I’ll ask you to stay. I’ll say I don’t know 
how it happened. Both statements are true. 
I want your hand in mine 
even now. 

most days

I spend a lot of time looking at
the ground, look
for spots I could curl into.
The warm grass at parks, the sides of
a road, a field I could disappear into.
(The corners of your arms.)
Why is gravity always so heavy?
Loving me straight into
the ground. I can’t stop
looking at the ground.
I dont even know if I was here today,
I almost hit a car today. 
I’m clawing myself out,
I just don’t know from what or where.
I think about hiding a lot, 
more then I want to admit. 
The lights are always too bright,
what I mean is sometimes I don’t want 
to exist. Everything feels like a crawl,
feels like bruised knees. 
Then there’s you, the warmest thing
I want to sink into.
I hope to god you can swim. 

now you’re really living 

A picture in and I am
already seeing the universe
in everything. Some times I
can’t decide if everything
is a miracle or if nothing is.
My days tend to blur and every day
is learning what it means
to be alive.
Do you ever look at your hands?
I know my lover’s hands more than 
my own. What does that say about me?
I stare at my palms. When does recognition 
become less and less?
I’m back in the hallway where
the elderly lady showed me her 
hands. Soft wrinkled flesh.
Flips them back to palm and says
“When did this happen?”.
She laughs but I am stuck in the moment 
right before. 


On the floor I see the once
pinned fortune cookie paper.
It’s a dumb piece of paper that I’ve kept.
What does it matter what pulls us forward?

I watch the pieces of my life rearranging,
it’s a picture that almost makes sense. I 
just have to get there, have to wait for the 
“fall into place”, for the dust to settle. 
Even now I listen for the sounds
you hear as you push in a piece 
just where it belongs.
Reassurance has weight in my hands.
We imagine the things we need, 
what does it matter, what keeps
our feet moving on?
Three months from that date,
I’m counting down. I’m a sucker for 
things that aren’t real like fate, like 
gentle waves of air in the shape of a 
hand, sent from something bigger.
I place the paper back on the cork board.
I ask July to be kind.

changing states 

Playing with the physics of our 
bodies in your bedroom.
We use key instruments of self,
adding friction, adjusting pressure and 
temperature in search of
 “just right”
Perfect conditions. Tightly wound 
body made soft by your hands. 
When you feel the vibrations
keep going. Changing states
of matter on your sheets.
Pressure turned higher, heated to the 
boiling point. Melting.
Bodies favor the existence of desires.
Reach the center, 
baby right now we are stars 
and you’re in the core of me. 
Can you feel my heat? 
The sun has nothing on me.
Tell me I make you burn. 


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.