a conversation with Lady LibertyI say I’m so sick of writing these goddamn(ed) poemsMore Like This
and You say don’t with a grin.
but I’ve made it too far already to make a deal with the devil
and there’s more than empty in my belly, but it’s not a hunger
so take this, boy: my heavy heart
take it for yours that was taken from you,
that beating alone was a crime
and You ask if I will do this for each one.
So how many more before we do something
besides mourn their last words?
and you shrug as if to say something
more than nothing at all.
The ScrambleI watched people scramble for happiness,More Like This
just to taste the tiny spillover on the floor.
I used to laugh at them,
at all their tumbles and scraped knees.
I used to.
Then I had a brief sip in a surprised moment.
And now I too, am scrambling.
Promissory NoteDon’t scare me like that.More Like This
I don’t want to lose you in a fire
we both started. Don’t you think
we’re both already too deft for
small talk? There are no pinky
promises between us now-
there were no pinky promises
between us then. No.
Just an open hello and
a too shy sound
blinked and boomeranged
to the edges of a wind.
We can’t even be reflections
on a noise.
And I’ve waited in the
middles of minutes
and the lasts of seconds
for a jape to jump up and
down and tell us it was a joke,
it was all just in place,
we were afraid of losing
one for the other
The Ugly Duckling Felt AstralDon’t think I’d list you upMore Like This
with asteroids this time.
the tickles in between
the lines of my palms,
straining them against
a loosely hold and
coming up with ideas
that they can feel mass
sensations without my
head. But I’m not done
with criss-crossing words,
so this time, why not settle
as a freckle
count the leaves as if they were your friendsi. You don’t need to give meMore Like This
83 Mona Lisa’s to tell me
you love me.
But I want you to say it back.
Although if you told me
both in a whisper
and a scream-
I wouldn’t be able to
tell one from the other, I think,
because by then
I’d be too preoccupied
staring at the intentness
of your eyes, the curves
of your lips as you let loose
something more addictive
than all my less-than-83 poems
combined, dear incendiary
It’s only fitting
since we’re more canvas than pen,
that we burn faster than coals
and blanket thinner than tree bark.
ii. Do you wonder when I do
that crowds are hiding places
for people like us
who have hands that tremble more
than throwing knives
and too much iron
on their tongue
from biting the insides?
But maybe we’ve just been
swallowing the sounds
meant to be thrown
when our frowns
began to get tired
and started to cheer us on.
And yet there’s too much
too fast going in a
Aphotic“I loved you once.”More Like This
To be honest, I’ve re-figured myself to know
exactly how you feel. It’s not easy after all,
to have your subconscious not as homey
as you thought it’d be- to be running in circles
when all you can do is crawl with both hands
No. Because we weren’t made to love rocks.
We weren’t made to be aeviternal when the tides
become tsunamis, when the paper cuts become
serrations. Even before the falls of our antebellum,
we’ve stopped denying ourselves to be aperitifs
to everyone else. Not because it was easier at the time
but because we had no other choice.
We gave everything to be amethyst,
to be something beyond the colour of our eyes
because maybe then, if the storms were good,
we could escape from being ourselves.
But we were on the opposite of that, too.
All we were really missing were the lights in our bones.
“Would you love me again?
quiet liesAlison left me. She does that a lot; I don't think she likes me as much as she used to. Maybe it's because I chew my pen, or because I smack my fingernails together to make a rat-tat-tatting sound when I'm bored and there's nothing else to occupy my mind or hands. Or maybe it's just because Alison is Alison, and she gets tired of everyone and makes them feel like scuffed tennis shoes. Whatever the reason, I'm alone and the walls are dark because she didn't switch the light on before she left. She knows I like the light, the way it flickers when the washing machine enters the spin cycle and sucks power from every corner of the house, but she didn't turn it on and I think she wants to hurt me. Alison likes hurting people. When she comes back it will still be dark and she'll be sneaking and she'll hit me, she'll hurt me and I'll cry and she'll lie and say she didn't mean it but she did; she always means it when she's cruel and never when she's nice. Emie told me not to trust Alison when sMore Like This
like water, stagnanti am caught within a group of soft-shelled silences,More Like This
the street lights too busy burning my convenience
to colour my incarceration;
illuminated misconceptions fluster,
broken in every way.
i have become lost in places,
and i cannot taste your lily on my tongue any more.
that's what it's about,
i love-- no,
i miss the ways in which you have broken me,
the soft curdle of your flesh,
and i find myself bitter at the thought
of spending the future pondering their loss.
a broken hallelujahinspired forgettingMore Like This
or repressed memories
push their palms to the front of my skull,
so urgently that dust coats their hands like a snowstorm
and i shake,
i q-q-quiver beneath the pressure
like old news tucked away in the corner of a closet,
and there's still room for one more problem,
one more echo,
one more brilliant mistake.
i am a wound with the depth of a mile long cave
and i say hello,
hello honey lovely,
to a hellion that never stays gone for too long.
it repeats in a torrent,
tugging at loose shingles
and drowning my cottages in distaste for my effort,
my attempt at normalcy,
and i am shamed,
i am littled into the dirt
where even dandelion seeds are bigger
and a single drop is a waterfall
and i am drowned,
beaten by it,
and everything in the world
excepting my most sorry of selves
that is so bruised,
so cramped that breathing is a struggle
and there is no room,
no possibility of reprimand for myself.
mould is thick,
collective measurementsstanding five feet, seven inches tallMore Like This
like he knows what he is
and is going to be,
but when you see the naivety lingering behind moist ears,
you understand what it is like to lie to oneself.
years spiral out of control
and suddenly his face is full of fallacies
and he is no longer vulnerable,
once so pink and newly formed,
and lies weeping in a fork,
bleeding its own lies
and lack of taste like desire.
once so soft,
have become hard and cracked
beneath the weight of a world he yearns to own
but can barely touch.
once so blue, so new,
are flecks within a wider pool,
thick with poisonous residue skimmed from his brokeness.
was loved and innocent once
but now his only innocence lies strangled within his height:
five feet, seven inches small.