art

everything is fine

there is a fisherman
holding flowers over there
by the landscape painting
he’s promising the
lie that you want to believe
he’ll tell you everything
that you want to hear
convince yourself that the
parallel universe is existing only
the one where nothing hurts
the grass couldn’t be greener
the sky couldn’t be bluer

I hope you get enough sunlight

bailing out when it gets too hard
I stare at the doorway
step outside
look up at the pines
I’m not apart of it
never will be
he told me
he would
do anything to spend
another night with her
made me feel
stronger there
is no breaking
another night
with her
the only place to ask
if they’re
falling out
become accustomed to
hearing these placeholder
digs lifting
me
hovering over
the cerulean blue couch

vivid dream activity

not even death has to be a disaster
death can just be an illusory smell
that stays in the nostrils weeks after
something traumatic happens to your body
an unexplainable wrench
no one will understand when
you ask ‘do you smell that decay’
but then you remember a time that
where you had your face pressed
up to death
non happenings stick
quarantine has dismantled time
the space between life and death
has now become the
infinite version of it still
we all feel it
we’ve all been bashed inside

free

everytime that I think it’s a good idea
I remember to look at the area where
the skin is illuminated
bright pink
it’s tiny and raw piece of skin
that doesn’t Belong to my hand
it’s someone else’s
I didn’t notice when it happened
it grows larger
as I lose my tan from last year
in contrast
with the gray skies
it’s the first thing that
a stranger sees

foreverago

please for the love of god
stop apologizing
for rejecting me.
stop apologizing for
you need a place to lay your
aching fucked up head. You
couldn’t stay
with the other woman
she’s yelling things at you from her car
I woke up thinking about
the warmest day of the summer
it was rainy and we were in the corner
of your new bedroom
it was a humid warmth, contained.
you didn’t bother to acknowledge it
while I was doing everything in my power
to hold it in my hands

8

without the tornado people
how am I going to write poetry
seeing these shiny happy
so privileged that look like they’ve
walked off a country living catalog
I feel like I’m staring at a different life
that I never want to be a part of
I’m still looking for you
I’m still writing shitty love poems
It’s still cold and everything
seems like it has remained the
same
this must be the place that I come
back to, even if it’s a painful
place
there is a whole in my heart
the shape of the day
we spent at the park and another one
for the day
I went to meet
you by the river

last days of Nov.

the spiritual experience of opening up a window

it’s time to start packing
place all of the books that you have
left in the cardboard boxes
look under the bed
sweep all of the remnants
of life lived in this room into the dust pan
here i am staring at the accumulation
of dust, dog hair, the corner of a
condom wrapper, a cotton ball
I continue to stare at this like
its art I continue to dissect
and remember
holding on to every piece
every memory from the summer
the waterfall, the overdose
can be seen in the gray
the blue bag from the time that
I bought someone a gift that I thought
they needed but they had plenty
but left me the bag
now it’s time to roll up the rug
moving all of the feelings
and things my body into a
new room

be happy, baby

stay soft yet strong
let that radiate from your
sunken eyes

made me no
molded me
crazy
the pain
made me crazy

now I distance myself
from people like me
women like me
who say innocent
things in order to be dismissed

numb the trauma
numb the trauma don’t rehash
it hide it, but numb it
don’t let it show
don’t , it only makes people feel bad
for you
for themselves
for the state of society
we only feel this pain and then
we die