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A friend yelled at me, "Stop writing poetry!" in response to my navigating
lost, broken, and misappropriated love. I didn't stop.
Everything is in the pieces. We ghost and fragment ourselves to each other in the pieces. Salty-sweet, bent-edged, lung-filled, finger and tongue moments of life and each other. Whether they're glittered pieces or some flesh of a shoulder of a person we devour when we fall in love.
lost, broken, and misappropriated love. I didn't stop.
Everything is in the pieces. We ghost and fragment ourselves to each other in the pieces. Salty-sweet, bent-edged, lung-filled, finger and tongue moments of life and each other. Whether they're glittered pieces or some flesh of a shoulder of a person we devour when we fall in love.
Newest Poem! Inspired by Summer
in the same room
it was when she drove that she imagined the room--
being in the same room with him.
the room where they would talk of maybe children
football lemonade Summer
fight about winter art opinion pictures silence
and it wasn’t as if drives home at night past trophy stores led to
structured quiet with him in the same room.
those windows knew the truth. there aren’t trophies for silence.
it wasn’t as if constant dial switches—NPR to hip hop
underscored the practiced argument they would have when in the same room.
Libya was more important in the grander scheme anyhow
if one was counting beans.
it wasn’t as if the cuticles she destroyed while waiting for trains to pass
would hurt more than the wounds they might try to heal in the same room.
but she would remember how he told her no at that same train stop.
it wasn’t as if the lemonade stand she told him about would be there
as she turned the corner for home.
it wasn’t as if the stairs she climbed, the door she unlocked
led to the same room.
in the same room with him.
she was never in the same room with him.
in the same room
it was when she drove that she imagined the room--
being in the same room with him.
the room where they would talk of maybe children
football lemonade Summer
fight about winter art opinion pictures silence
and it wasn’t as if drives home at night past trophy stores led to
structured quiet with him in the same room.
those windows knew the truth. there aren’t trophies for silence.
it wasn’t as if constant dial switches—NPR to hip hop
underscored the practiced argument they would have when in the same room.
Libya was more important in the grander scheme anyhow
if one was counting beans.
it wasn’t as if the cuticles she destroyed while waiting for trains to pass
would hurt more than the wounds they might try to heal in the same room.
but she would remember how he told her no at that same train stop.
it wasn’t as if the lemonade stand she told him about would be there
as she turned the corner for home.
it wasn’t as if the stairs she climbed, the door she unlocked
led to the same room.
in the same room with him.
she was never in the same room with him.