a voice heard in an instagram post/am i too old for this

good things have happened to me before
and they will happen again i keep looking for
the thing that hurt me because
I want to sit in front of it
for whatever time I have left
I want to let it leave tiny orange
spots all over my body
I want it to leave me not knowing
my name how i got here
why i’m left alone again
it’s a cycle of gaslighting that I could
swear that I’m doing it to myself voluntarily
I could have sworn that being there
could Mean something
karma, good things happen
right but why is that everytime
you decide to come back into my life
all of the patches i’ve covered
on myself disappear
happy is again something
I need to strive for and will never
reach because you want
to make sure i’m left
with another heartbreak some
may say that I shouldn’t
let you disrespect me like that
so I’m erasing you from my
existence every word in writing
here is leaving a bit of you behind
until you’re completely out
of my mind just in time

watch me shower

how many ways can I show
you that I don’t care
I reappear and tell you
you mean nothing to me
all of the people that I meet along
the way
are better than you
how many disappearing acts
do you have to manifest
to show you
once and for all
that I only
need you for shelter
an old iphone
this oily hair and hands
casted with paint only
want to use you
do not wait around for
a love letter
or an apology
I will reappear
holding my shoulders
and a new scar
carrying all of the chaos
mind if I unload here for a while


Life is hard everywhere, at least there are mountains here. I moved with the intention of finding a lighter way of life. A life where I can dance through some trees and drink from a well. Perhaps even collect some flowers and dance my way back. A life where my face is always in the sun and I forget to do anything else and then get scared about it. Like having to be pushed in a direction before I forget that there is a life that I need to live. There are so many things to do. So many people to meet. So many dollar bills. I can’t just sit in the sun until I’m done. I’ll never be done. With my face in the sun I am catatonic.

didn’t I

I had to tell my therapist
and everyone that I’ve come across
since you left
that I’m hiding all of your artwork

you wanted me to keep it
probably because you know
that I would take good care of it.
there is one fond, maybe two, fond,
memories that I have of our summer romance
one being the warmth I felt
on a hot rock
with you by the river

then driving home in the rain
while you nodded off

three, getting lost on a mountain
while trying to find the best spot
to watch the fireworks

we resulted to a playground
where you took a picture
of us kissing
I don’t remember it

in this picture the
light from the white firework
is illuminating my hair
the halo of frizz looks red
silhouette shows eyes

your face is barely in it
it’s mostly me, on fire
with a grey sky behind me

I am for an Art with the smell of Spanish food that bleeds into busy streets.
I am for an Art with earth tones that blend into the outside world.
I am for an Art that allows the cat to scratch at and ultimately destroy.
I am for an Art that tucks me in at night only to wake up me at 1:00am.
I am for an Art whose lines repeat and roll into infinity.
I am for an Art that is found in hot garbage.
I am for an Art that is drifting through the subway train wind.
I am for an Art that is floating through a creek in the mountains.
I am for an Art at the bottom of an empty mug.
I am for an Art that’s in the desert land, in-between the suburbs and the city.
I am for an Art that is asking a question in response.
I am for an Art that doesn’t call for attention.
I am for an Art that doesn’t shave.
I am for an Art that cuts it’s own hair.
I am for an Art with thin, frail black lines, and vines all around it.
I am for an Art that one must eat cranberries and sip red wine to.
I am for an Art that is always on the verge of breaking.
I am for an Art that is burning, fueling the fire of something bigger.
I am for an Art that takes a century to create.
I am for an Art that is hard to look at directly without crying.


walking in ny

A creaky heart
with each inhale and exhale
is a twig holding the
red belly of a
little bird that travels nocturnally

Walking past the bar that looks
like a 1920’s gathering
with its yellow round bulbs
decorative and dark borders

The trash on the sidewalk
seems to have come together
through serendipity
for the pleasure of
the moonlight, the streetlight
and the rain from earlier

Treasure from this angle

waiting for(it)

I’m walking through this
New City
more like pacing
and hoping, pacing and hoping
for something
even a terrible something

that a piano will fall on top of me
after a construction worker yells
dropping from the top floor
every grate, is a moment of prayer
a meditation
of crossing my fingers
and hoping that I fall through

the best of

oh ‘so, and so’,
why do they all look like
some version of me
I never thought I would be a number
a fit
into someones type

I start to fold the chair
and place it against the
pale pink chipped wall

light fills the holes
to look like scales

move closer to me
stay in your chair
but inch
with little to no grace
as if to say
I’m not ashamed
of pretending

warm and fuzzy intervals

Mother nature is taking its toll
crumpling the paper
and turning it into sprouts
to this pen
hang on the edge

I just want to lay face down
on the wet grass
my mind is full of delusions,
and there is no proof of the love,
or a continuation,
or any resolution
a reunion of the same

confused feelings

I push you from my mind,
only to still feel you in the room