the unknown | poem

between your mouth
and crown, i’m waiting for a silent answer to a silent question like an atheist who prays.

stitches aren’t thick enough to fix our broken souls, so i’ll take the pieces and unify, starting with fingers and auras, third eyes and toes. i’ll lace the pair of us like shoes, so we trip and fall.

i want to play with your spirit, your sap, your being. i want to turn your tears to tea. my favorite part is not knowing what you’d do if i did.

Cycle | poem

I used to pour the last drop of tea down the drain. That was before the fall, before every crumbling piece was a ceramic wing, before an inner solstice had begun. I was a tool for gods to use. Now, I am their voice.
I drink the last drop while the moon stretches, on the edge of ecstatic orgasm. Think of the oceans that wouldn’t exist without our tears, or holes in the earth, empty without our blood. Think of the walls we broke to build new ones.
I drink the last drop while two girls across the street stumble in high heels like children playing dress-up. I would too, if I knew how to follow lamplight. But I’m not quick to kick, spinning

Attachment Theory | poem

you're syrup that's too sweet for me. our souls are stuck, (without permission) wound and bound by cobwebs, curly q’s, dust clumps. but i don’t want the kind of love you can crush with bare hands. i want the good stuff, (not over-the-counter) the kind that weaves pages in leather-bound bowels.

all i have is sap for paint, blood
for rouge, and glue to keep my eyes shut when they’d rather look
at you.

Hoarder | poem

You shatter in my hands, litter my skin. I keep your pieces in pockets, key holes, flower pots. Cracked eyes gaze from windows - bloody cobwebs clinging to eggshells. One day, you’ll be swallowed by garbage trucks, but for now, you stick
and clutter.

World Pieces | poem

The bomb killed twenty two, twelve too young to drive. (Still dying.) On the coast, I hear it - blasted white caps ripping flesh. The fish they feed are dying too.
At his concert, Matty yells, We’re proud to be from Manchester! The crowd spouts roses, glow sticks, and smoke. I leave - too dizzy to sing or think.
Security stops me - checks my pockets for bombs - finds shards of the world. Why do you have these? They scream.
I thought music would fuse them, I plead, reaching and pulling God from the smog, but they can’t see. They stumble and puff - too numb

Bad Advice | poem

You advise: smile more, cry less!

Sorry, I forgot -

feelings aren't mine to possess.

Hangover | poem

Lungs huff morning. Sun drips in pores—honey in tea—reeks of rum.
Backs warped—pink Solo cups floating in bins—wasted.
Eyes raw—coins thumbed by scholars who can’t let go of bottles—trip over papers
strewn across crumbs on sheets on bodies on beds, and then—thesis: the cure is—