I fall in love at twilight.
Broad statement.
I fall in love with the way
your voice sometimes
lives in the place between awake
and dreaming,
where you talk to me
in an octave far more hushed
than normal,
where your head meets
my shoulder.

It’s like a fogged glass
memory of September,
my fingers running over your hair,
“Drive” playing off the radio;
your cheek pressed to the lining of my jacket,
body shifted from driver’s seat to
lap of passenger,
to a girl who believes for a few moments,
a half hour,
she will be all you need.
Lack-luster friend,
semblance of rest.

When you wake,
you tend to hold people a little tighter.
Your hand brushes theirs in a dimly lit bar
and for once, you eat a whole dinner.

I fall in love with the way
the rain raced down your windows,
“I Will Possess Your Heart” on the radio,
singing softly to your somnia.
Waiting for your voice to fill with sleep,
for your eyes to lift up and meet
to hear your voice clogged with something
other than a lonely girl’s dream:
to watch your tongue fold over itself with silence,
to watch you break the planes of slumber.

Listening still,
after all this time.
Holding out
for a whisper.



Lately, I’ve been walking through memory.
I have a boy,
who’s toying
with the idea of FaceTiming me.
I creep upstairs
lit by the glow of a phone screen,
and each shadow closes in.

I’m beginning to wonder
if I let the feel of you
seep into my skin.
I’m tip-toeing around rooms
and looking at spots on carpet
where your body once laid.

I’m letting the past get the best of me.

I’m thinking of different places on my couch
where I kissed him
or he held me
and you’re like a stain
that won’t get out of that damn carpet.

Eyes closed,
my chin on your chest,
you’ve been 22 for about 20 minutes
and I won’t let you leave.

It wouldn’t be the last time you stepped into my house,
but it’d be a memory where your girlfriend
and your mom weren’t the first to reach you—

and three years later,
I’m trying not to,
I’m telling myself I’m in mourning,
in healing,
waiting on a plan,
and not re-considering
the idea,
the promising heartbreak,
the never coming to fruition
possibility of

Shadow Self

This time hurts more
than the first.
You can celebrate that small

I miss ______
more now than I did then.

I miss my confidence,
and my laughter.
I missed the faces I’d make without
second question.

I miss feel worthwhile
or interesting
or even like somebody
other people want to talk to:
not vent to or hook-up

I miss being a person
rather than a body;
I’m tired of dressing a certain way
to make myself feel

I don’t think I am

That’s a shot at my ego
that shouldn’t matter as much,

Today a crush
asked about some girl
who’s your typical
definition of American’s
sweetheart mixed with

and you knew,
for sure this time,
you’d never be the one.
By “you”, I mean “I”,
I’m still trying not to be sad
about it,
but sometimes

this weather cloys the air
until all I want to do is
and wake up and you,
yes you,
be there and apologize
that I’m having a bad dream.

Like that would fix everything.
Like you’d try this time to fix

Most of all,
I miss my sense of self,
my pep talks,
the security in my being
knowing who I was,
who I am
is good and

I made some people
laugh today.

That is the only thing
I am capable of
that makes me feel like


Here’s something I don’t need to say:
you move me.
There’s something genuine in your sincerity.
We can wrap ourselves around each other
like ouroboros and come back biting,
shining teeth
that are taking their time savoring,

In every moment, past and present,
you have consistently held me steady.
I have tried to be an anchor for your misery
and each time we come back to each other again
and again
and again,
and I wonder if you can tell,
I’m learning to love you
a little less quietly.

Hurricane “We”

They sing about crashing
into you
like you are simply a wave
rolling up
and I am a shore
waiting for you to kiss me,
ever gently.

But the problem is,
I don’t want it to be

Come tumbling
over me.
Tidal wave
churning in the sea.
We won’t have to contort
our bodies
into the shape of Florida,
because I’ll be saying
your name so
many times,
people will  just assume
we’re October.

Rain over me like hurricane,
because whenever I’m with you,
it’s tropical storm season.

My Cup Runneth Over

I can’t keep my coffee in my cup.
Yet, I can’t keep my lipstick off of it.

is a metaphor for
all the boys I’ve loved,
and why I’ve burned because of them.

They didn’t come with sleeves
or warnings of:
“CAUTION: Contents may be hot.”
(On that note:)
Kisses may singe and there’s nothing beautiful
about ash covered lips.

So I cover them
with colored balms instead;
feed my addiction by leaving marks on their cheeks
and their necks.

Wonder why each night I toss and turn
without caffeine in my system.
Wake up shaking
off tears like embers,
just to paint my lips red

Searching for Oxygen

And I want you;
more than ever,
the way that my right hand
wants to snatch a pencil
from my left
because it knows the left
will not treat it correctly.

The way you never
treat me correctly—-

But back then…

My God,
you were my right hand.
Reaching inside my chest
and tying tourniquets around
my bleeding heart;
the one he left a car crash
Telling me to breathe easier,
the room is not filling up with
I’m only drowning myself,
so you will drive a little longer
to get me out of my cesspool head
and into secure meadow,
head lying in the grass.

saved me.
There was the
car turning into parking space I did not see.
You grabbed me,
moved me.

and yet

I fall back into step
with you
and his sidekick,

You only held one arm out to hug me.
But when I wrapped my arms around your neck,
you pressed my back into your chest,
and maybe that is when I started
to breathe again.

I let you go off somewhere else,
where people know how to swim,
hearts beat,
and there is no me.
I am not certain,
but others have assured,
that when you’re without me,
you seem to breathe easy.