Weak One | poem

Stories hitch in sore necks, climb our throats, and yank wisdom from tired gums—clammy stomachs tumbling gems.
Week one of six—knitting infinity with tongues. Between inflated cheeks and lost teeth, we choke ourselves with tears, spit
on paper and knotted gauze.
I’m not strong enough to hold the holy books we’ve written— sprinkled with fingernails— or swallow violet sediment.
Ink glistens like pavement in the pupils of twelve parched eyes, begging—
how will we survive?

Socks | poem

For our birthdays, we exchanged socks like promises: I’ll protect you if you protect me.
But we hated confinement, so often, we shed our socks and raced through hallways, puddles, rivers— more than common ground.
We broke free of simplicity—spilled over walls like nail polish, screamed like firing guns, and ate our fill of rainclouds.
For your birthday, I wear your socks, slip, fall, and think: I’ll get up for you
if yo

Creativity and I | a poetic response to Liz Gilbert's "Big Magic"

Creativity and I

We're the couple
who sits in booths,
passing scribbled
napkins instead of

We're the weirdos
who don't know
if they're friends,
or lovers 
(and no one 
else knows either).

We're two different 
colored grapes 
on the same vine (we 
make a nice rosé); two 
rose bushes growing 
into each other; two
stained glass windows
on either side of a church;
one red and
one blue lens
in a pair of 3-D glasses.

Creativity and I
are inconsistent,
sloppy, and sometimes 
intoxicated. Our love is
high, wild, storm-ready,
innocent, focused, 
mature, and confused.
We have some 
commitment issues,
but our love's a fun one.

In other words: reading "Big Magic" made me realize that my relationship with Creativity is extremely unconventional (and at times positively contradictory), but we like it that way.

Dark December | poem

the memory

I miss the shadows that spin past eyelids, onto the floor,
and legs sprouting like leaves from blanketed branches.

I miss feeling your wounds heal under my mouth. I miss the coils of coalish petals you left on my pillowcase.

I miss the unseen grins, minutes before sunrise. I miss sleep talk, on and off, biological alarms that sang me awake. I miss limbs against limbs, the art of the sleepless, and the blinking bruises of morning.

the lament

It’s Hell to wash the mess, to pick apart clinging wire, to accept that my body

two flames | poem

Woke up with your teeth lodged in my shoulder and wondered if my aura sticks to the roof of your mouth - azure wax spilling down lips and organs, between
joints and nerves. My mind is a charred wick,

Woke up with flakes of ash on my sleeve, exhausted from thinking
deeper than I can breathe. My body is wax, hardening
to your shape. But when the flame falls, smoke spurts
like blood

and I crack.

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