Animal Instinct

Every boy who has
kissed me first
has also left me.
And maybe that says something about
how my mouth is bear trap,
whereas ankles are normally trapped
my lips work as snare,
confine others’ because
it’s the only way I know how to beg,
it’s the only way I can convey “stay”.

I want but
never ask first.
One never does when the question leads
to abandonment;
why even bother the claws to break skin?

When you don’t have a chance of holding
what’s meant to leave you.
When mouths meeting are a different kind of speaking,
a “goodbye” tasted, instead of said.



Love like ocean:
overused simile,
feeling of falling in
too deep,
and not being afraid
of it.

Under the surface
and still able to

water like bed
holds lovers close,
floating hearts
in treasured chests.

into skin and touch
and arms once more.
never again to be lost
with other fish
in the sea.
Never wanting again
for another

Night Wonderings

I want someone to talk to.
To want to feel my pulse in their ears when my head hits the pillow.
To wake up buzzing with the thought of my skin as an echo.
I hope they dream of the smiles that they could carve on my face
like Michelangelo.

I hope they aren’t all like you;
that some find me good enough,
and others refuse to let go.

Night Owl

I am sitting in a pitch black room, but somehow it appears navy. My face is only lit up by the man-made light that comes from a fluorescent computer screen. Pandora is playing James Blake and I am happy.

I have just finished a Vinyasa set of my own making and somehow I am still breathing. Doped up on allergy medicine and my own worst enemy, midnight memories, I sit in silence and feel my body sigh with relief. I am happy.

I sit with my legs folded under me and my hair wrapped in a makeshift bun at the nape of my neck. My legs are bare and prickly; I’m in an old T from cheer and “yoga shorts” that have my ass hanging more than halfway out and I am happy.

I am sipping on ice water, feeling the dull throb at the base of my spine; I let my body unwind. I am happy.

Sap and Syrup

I once wrote a poem
about how I wanted to hold hands
with a boy whose hands were colder than mine.

And I once wrote a poem
about being curled up on my bed
with someone who stared into my eyes
like he had never seen the color green before;
whose laugh I can still pick out,
with music blasting and crowds of people.

I wrote several poems
about a boy who let me trace the scar
on his right hand over and over
and sang beautifully to whatever song came on 104.5
and changed the radio when I needed to hear “Clarity”
and made me hate it forever after.

And now I’m left writing sad songs,
and morbid poetry.
Domestic violence
and sexual assault in the work place.
I am left trying to impress people
I fangirl over.

And that is not expression.

I am left with erotica spilling from my lips
and onto keys
and names like soft spoken inkwells
because I’m too shy to do slam poetry,
with a confident voice.

But on days when it’s raining
know this:
That I will fit into the curve of your side
and we can watch whatever (even Friends)
and listen to whatever
(but please not rap)
and if you just run your fingers through my hair
or drape an arm over my side
that’s all I want,
that’s all I’ll write.

And maybe, for once, I’ll know what happiness tastes like
without writing about biting collarbones
and meshing flesh.

Ye of Little Faith

I walk into the hallway
to see you leaning against a row of lockers.
I like how you do your hair,
the color of your eyes,
and how your expression always seems
“Devil May Care.”

The devil may
begin to want we have
because though I do not
even know your name,
the wind’s chill still runs through me
and the thought of your icy fingers
climbing up on my spine
calls for adrenaline

Back pressed into cinder block walls
lips hinged to my neck
and hot blood,
warm blood,
easily confused for
drunk love
races through my veins.

If this is sin,
if this is strange,
maybe it’s because you’re thinking
too hard when all I
need is a body
your body
to be my saving grace