a series lines from unrelated poems

I still write your name on chalkboards and left over pieces of paper,
I leave out the a--

My old clothes that hide in the back of the garage all smell too unfamiliar,
like those of somebody I can barley remember

Some days I wish I could be an ocean,
as big as I am on the inside, on the outside,
I'll let the water swallow me,
drink down the---

I believe in a God--

You are the type of person who  used to make bucket lists on left over pieces of paper,
You are the type of person who does not bother to buckle your seatbelt--

You dance under street lights that radiate like multi-colored malignancies and count the days left in your calendar--

All those pages,
consumed by ashes
in the fire--

God never answers--

A sober alcoholic is always thirsty--

I rather drink acid than inhale smoke, ashes--

writing in cursive is a just another metaphor for life,
the words don't stop until your hands get too tired--

Mom I cannot answer you
I do not understand the words that fall off your unfamiliar tongue,
I'm sorry--

I'm still not finished carving your name off this page--

When everything hurts, hurt is everything--

Snowstorms

What tragic disorder, that

there is a heaven,

and you are alone in it,

in madness and blur,

beyond midnight of white skies,

you made of life.





calling yourself the left behind.

calling yourself stained sheets,

calling yourself wanton of the white.




You, a heavy pit of stones.

Pit of wounds,

Body, light, like snow.

Body, sharp — like unforgiving blade,

too difficult to kill.





Pain freezes in you,

a river of dry blood.





Leave them to wonder how your knees

got so heavy from the storm,

your bones, weightless

like air.


Heaven rains,

body, soaked.

Boots wet,

they cling to the trees,

they cling to whatever stays.

You cling to your body, fearful

you will lose it.





You must know better,

The hour is too late to be,

inviting yourself,

into heavy white graves.

Wicked at the core of being

Wicked at the core of her being.

wicked pain

wicked lonely

wicked laughter,

wicked body.

Wicked Romeo

with corrosive artful blue eyes,

theatrical ones that break

hearts into reckless tangled messes

remnants of art.

Wicked hunger, unable to swallow

Eats her like animal,

Absorbs the best parts of her

Spits her out,

undesirable

so she may not die again.

Wicked, beautiful disorder

unsheathes empty, infernal sinners out of solitude

Unchains the demon of lawlessness,

unchains himself.

Defies the devil’s medley

of sinking passions,

sinking souls.

Evaporates lustful heat

and silence.

Wicked who

inundates abandoned,

hollow minds

with covetous obsession,

and stupid rapture.

Petrified to be Godlike

The sky must be hollow.

Darkness was everyday crazy. She doesn’t know where she’s going, but she’s not lost. The distance doesn’t matter. She’s driving away from the monsters. The street lamps, silver. The black sky remembers the silver. She stares down at the pavement — she’s looks for hell, wonders if it exists. Wonders if it waits for her. She hates driving on the freeway. The wind is after her. She closes her eyelids- breathes in. The engine runs faster in the dark. She wonders why everything is always running. She counts the trees. There are fourteen. 14 minutes left of road. She wonders what flying feels like. She counts the stop signs as she drives into the dark. She doesn’t know where she’s going.

August

August does omit the same vibrancy as July

does not breathe the same lovely

refuses to entangle the world around heat and shared laughter

August reeks of empty goodbyes, 

of brokenness 

unfinished jigsaw pieces

of fleeting yesterdays, 

slipping out of my reach 

Uncapturable 

I want to enclose them in a timeless record 

replay it until the sound shatters
August indulges on lonely chess games
crafting different realities for each move I could had made
the mind is a dangerous trigger

August consists of reincarnating the past, 

performing autopsies on delicate moments, 

reliving what I should have said, should have done, 

August accepts logic over self-invented impossibilities

does not believe in returning to the moon 

August did not break me, 

I broke my own goddamn self.