I’m waiting for you to come to bed.
Earlier you said you wanted my feelings
so I throw them right at you. 
Want the truth, 
sometimes it’s hard to give a shit
when you’re so tired. I’m so fucking 
tired. I’m looking at the floors again.
I’m bending backwards and you 
don’t know why I can’t just snap and
fit next to you. So we don’t see 
eye to eye. Baby I love you 
but don’t ask me to step in the ring
and not go for the heart. 


house tour 

The part that calls through a door
echos in floorboards
asking to be opened.
Traveling from foot to spine.
From chest to head. 
Listen, the house of my body
 has a room you won’t see.
I don’t visit much, unless it’s dark,
unless I’m looking at the floors again,
unless I admit I know how to kill beautiful things.
You’ll ask about the rope, the string, the thread.
The rope loops around and you laugh as if this house can’t move.
You’ll trip before you realize it.
I promise it will never hold you and
I’ll give you light and a knife.
But let’s not get too ahead,
here are the rules for now:

1. The house sinks and floats and you must press against the floorboards to tell. 

2. The attic is off limits, even I can’t visit sometimes.

3. This house is a body, is a house, wants to be a home.

4. Some lights never go out, it’s better this way.

5. The heavy room is here to stay, I need you to know that. It’s always been this way. 

Now come over lover, I want to be the 
warmest thing you know. 


You ask for more and I apologize.
I’m so vague. My head feels like air
and words that make my chest heavy.
I love that you don’t mind my little
sadness tucked away. Or my answer
when you want to know what I think about.
I smile and you don’t press. 
Except when you do.
You are so clever. Do you know
what you do to me? 
God I want to love you right. 
I knew you’d be the one
so my chest ached. 
Slipped past the fence. 
Slip in me, I want you inside.
You should hear the silence
in my head it’s so 
fucking beautiful. 


I know I’m happy and that’s when
words escape me. Slips
past me, I’m so fucking light.
So fucking full of air and warmth. 
Best part of my day is 
sighing into your mouth. 
Best part of my day is feeling okay,
I’m going to die one day 
but fuck it I’m human,
hope you’ll be by my side. 

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.