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
art
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
Morning song
A giant woke up in a house with tissue paper walls and light that fills every corner. Look at this painting! Look at that painting! Look at the window! They’re waking up with you. The trees are bare. Talk about how it’s prettier in the summer. Look at it and say that it is not enough for the moment.
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
unsent
caught somewhere between
the mundanity, grief,
and trying to save
someone’s life, a past lover
but drinking coffee and
crying instead
