Which Hurts Worse

I’m crying
so that only leads
to writing poetry.

That what you want
isn’t necessarily easy.
That having someone
fall out of love with you,
even if you want them to,
is still heartbreaking.

That you know it’s the right thing
and yet,
tears still stream.

you’re hurting again.

this year, seems to end
all at once.

And you’re still too scared to run.

To chase after anything
worth having
to make you feel loved,
because you lost
another one.

And, even you’re surprised
that a piece of your heart went
with them.

So you cry
and write the poem.
You don’t say you love
’cause it’s not the kind of
love they want.

This time,
if they choose to go,
you’ll let them.



if life was like a book,
you would have just been a chapter
and I could’ve closed it,
moved on
found closure.

to some people
I “fabricate” things,
turn people into characters
and pull out the pieces that seem
“most promising”
like all my friends
are hellbent on
destroying me
take companions because I can’t
combat the lonely.

because I am a writer,
I must be good at fantasizing;
and every story I wrote about us,
every poem I wrote for him,
every back my nails scratched into
must make one hell of a map
back to an altered reality,
because none of those things
happened actually;

and if this life was a book,
I’d have already skimmed through to the ending.
wouldn’t waste time on exposition
and backstory.
I would look for dialogue
and every romantic scene.
I would be a plotline
fully developed
and there would be fanfic about
this life I lead.

So listen,
if MY life is really just a matter
of creating a made up hero
to keep me company,
if I’m writing about
or “pulling from” anybody,
let them be the love interest,
let them be the protagonist,
let them all resemble a character worth rooting for.

Let them be me.

While You’re Figuring Yourself Out

At the end of the day,
you’re not here anymore.
Whether that is metaphorical
as well as physical
is still indecipherable,
but nonetheless,
you aren’t the big brother
you’d said you’d be.

And that used to bother me.

(I guess you can argue
that it still does
if I’m putting you in poetry,)
But the truth is this:

While I’m not where I want to be,
I’m stronger.
And while I’m still working out the kinks,
I know what I stand for.

When love walked out,
what did you turn to?
And I know you may never tell me.

And that’s okay,
because at the end of the day,
even if this is a fluke,
even though this is barely a thread of a friendship
and a fray of the past,
this time I’ll be just fine when you leave.

Did you know,
I’m learning how to quiet the anxiety that used to keep me up for hours?
Did you know when my head hits the pillow,
I now have peace?

Because when I walked away from love,
I went back to belief.

Your Eyes on Little Me

I’m excited
for when you become a dad.

This isn’t the normal break-up poem,
about how I would’ve been the perfect mom,
how our children
would be a reason for staying together all this time,
or a way to make-up for “never getting over”

because I have.

But “Next to You” is playing
and I’m feeling nostalgic.

So let me say that I’m excited
you’d be the father
that lets his child believe
they can fly.
You’ll be the daddy
his little girl comes running to,
the one she’ll want the love of her life to be modeled after.

Promise me
you’ll never lose that light in your eyes
and the laugh
that shakes a whole room.
Promise me
you’ll tell them
all the good and bad things
and you’ll recall with clarity
the moments that made you,
for them,
to them.

It’ll take time,
but when I see a dad charging toward his kid
like a plane,
I’ll see you.
And when I see a child
it’ll sound like you.

We grew apart,
but promise me,
you’ll never grow up.


It is the dark
and I force us to have a heart-to-heart
because there is something about nightfall
that makes my mouth
want to spill like a sieve
and your lips have no intention
of becoming a dam
to stop me.

It is the dark
and I am telling you about
how I might creep you out
and you bled me dry
and I had nothing
after  you had
up and left.
And I don’t expect you to apologize for this.
And you don’t.

But when I tell you
I know you won’t hurt me,
you agree.
And it’s that small reassurance.
that I haven’t been lying when I told others this,
that unleashes every hold on me
that believes I have to be my
caged self in front of you

so I come pouring forth,
rushing river,
and you take me in stride,
silent like every rock
that splits the water

and I didn’t get a chance to tell you
but I thank you for it,
I love you for it.

It is the dark,
and, sitting next to you,
I am who I am,
nothing more
nothing less
and I am content.

“The Witching Hour”

I sat by your side
and wrote about your shaking hands
while you spoke
about a project
that normalizes “otherness”.

You put your arm around me
and I lay my head against your shoulder
and I wonder why this world
makes you fight,
makes you explain
what makes you, you
and how it can be acceptable to them.

You rub your thumb against the back of my hand
and I don’t even have to think about fighting
for you,
don’t even have to second guess that the circus
is the world we already live in,
and if anything,
you’re the one with the top hat,
smiling in the middle of three rings.

I could watch you forever.
Listen to the way
you become passionate under a spotlight,
speak a world into being
so others can glimpse for a second
what you actually are:
my favorite kind of magic.

Are you lonesome tonight

and do you curl up on your side
the same way I do?
Know then that I am made
for you,

two apostrophes
to become quotation marks
telling our stories

two apron strings
hastily tied
so we are ready when we make a mess

two heads bowed
foreheads pressed
when we ask for grace

two mouthes
meeting once, twice
learning to share breath

Two persons
becoming one someday,
but for now

one head
on one pillow
dreaming about
them both.