Take My Hand

Run with me,
not away from the pain,
not to some promised bliss,
but into the belly of this beast,
this present churning thing,
this changing of me
from self hating
and you, the aching,
into something that slightly resembles glory.

When the monster roars,
I will not give up on you.
Even if it swallows us alive,
I would rather go down, feet flying
then to be devoured standing still.

Run with me
even if we don’t end up
as glowing beings.
Run with me even if we have the skid marks
of shooting stars across our backs
and barely grazed the moon.

Run with me,
because though the future isn’t certain,
this will one day be memory.
Run with me,
because we both know it takes
being beaten in order to feel again.


Fair Exchange 

A boy
I have not spoken to
in three years
pulls me aside to tell me
I deserve better.

My sister calls this
an act of God,
that sometimes someone has to speak
the truth because I know it,
but don’t believe it myself.
But this time,
I agree with her.

Think it’s funny
how someone who used to beg me
for things below the belt,
doesn’t know how he’s interceding
for the Holiest of holies.

Want to tell him,
I see it, too,
how God’s purposely
protecting me.

Want to apologize
for clearing out my backseat.

Want to cry out
the cliched “hallelujah”;
shed tears on the drive home,
and thank Him for his mercy.

Praise Him
that it’s been over a month
and these lips have been
consistently denied the opportunity
to learn the contours of
another no-good-for-me
some body.

Forgive Them Because You Deserve Peace

I’m calling it quits
with memory.
You see,
the two of is just weren’t working out,
falling out of love never happened so fast.

The way I fell for reality,
damn shame it took me this long.
I’m choosing to be happy,
because I deserve to be healthy
(in the very least).

I deserve not to feel suckerpunched
when pictures of you appear on my dash,
but we haven’t spoken in
That’s not fair to me.

You see,
I will always love the you
in my memories.
no matter what you’ve done or did
to me.
I do not give up on others
so easily.
And if you ever need me,
you know how to reach me.

But I’m done with thinking I’ve lost
because I’ve been left.
I’m finding myself,
regaining my health
you know the spiel:
physically, mentally, emotionally.

I’m not going to call you
“lover” or even

I’m going to say all your names for the last time:
Mike (both)
I’m letting you all go

The ball’s in your courts, if you ever wish to find
or refriend me.


I Have Been a Fool for Lesser Things

I once
wrote a piece about how much I wanted him
and in no innocent ways possible.

But with you,
this is not so.

Let me state this now:

This is an open letter to you
with my intentions stated clearly.

I want you to want me.
And I don’t mean just physically.
I mean, crave my company.

Because when I picture us together,
it’s leg stretched out in front,
backs up against a dresser,
bowls of popcorn on laps
and some horror movie I am not prepared for
playing off your laptop.

When I see us in the summer,
it’s me singing very off-key to some pop song blasting
on the radio and you rolling your eyes at me in the passenger seat,
until we get to our destination.

I know you’re easily impressed.
Cape May Zoo it is.

Because I don’t know if you get it:
with you, I’m happy.
Just being in your presence I’m calm
and myself.
I am glued together if only for a few seconds.

Which brings me to our next topic:
I can’t save you, despite
my Savior complex. I hate when guys use it on me,
and I can’t bring back whatever she gave you. But know this:
that even though I barely know you,
I want you to obtain happiness,
whatever way you can fully grasp it,
tightly and tangible in your palms.
And if that means her,
and yes, it does mean her
I will let the shattered pieces sweep up
after I take a few gasps of positivity and

Because, fact of the matter is,
these are all possibilities.
That when you are scared of being eaten alive by whatever
demons you are fighting inside, when you need to escape,
you can always reach for me. And I will take you blindly.
Even when you’re being an ass, which I’m sure is bound to happen,
and I’ll refrain from being a bitch…
[Unless you’re into that sort of thing. ;)]

We don’t have to talk about relationships or even family
(however, I’m wondering what your mom’s name is).
We don’t have to talk about your hobbies, favorite books or bands,
but I do know your favorite candy (concerning chocolate; sugar is something else entirely) or anything at all if you don’t want to expose any of yourself to me.
But don’t expect me to spill out my heartbreak like an opera;
I was never one for “arias”.
(If you get that reference, let’s high five,
preferably with your lips
and my neck.
Oh wait…)

I’m too forward and somewhat conceited. Pushy,
and that’s partially because I can be needy. It’s a flaw in the myriad of things
that make up the list of why sometimes even I can’t stand being around me.
I find innuendos in practically everything and switch topics at the speed of light; ask strange questions pulled directly from the realm of thin air.

This is becoming prose poetry
You have yet to write anything that doesn’t
impress me.
In that aspect,
I wish you would give yourself more credit.

And though we have little to no history, though you barely know me,
there’s a few things I have to clear up that I would more than like:
I want your roommates to like me (because I search for validation like a blind man craves sight and because they are decent people and I like them as an admirer from a very far distance who has a high tendency to be socially awkward because she does this thing where she “speaks in public”)
I want to kiss you again (and boy, do I want to kiss you again, but I will never EVER initiate anything without your consent. On the other hand, if you blindside me—-I won’t protest.),
but more than either of these things,
I want to (if I am ever/even lucky enough to be considered) be your friend.

We didn’t have a beginning,
but I won’t be shocked if there is an end. 


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.


Happy Birthday

I’m not gonna lie;
I listen to
“Thinkin’ Bout You”
and I see me rocking against you.

I like to pretend that
you hold my hips
and my body
dips and flows against you

Maybe I’m giving you too much credit.

I picture the way our bodies bend,
and if it is any way like I’ve imagined,
God babe,
please break me.

I find that this a pattern
I have with my musings about you.
Something like erotica
something others call sensual poetry.
Because I want to feel your hands all over me
as poisonous and intoxicating as it may be.

And I see the irony,
that the one Frank Ocean song that reminds me about you
shares the name of the one song
you showed me:
Calvin Harris’ “Thinkin’ ‘Bout You”.
Which every time I hear,
I see myself sitting near you in Profs.

I was explaining to someone the other day
about how I’m just naturally affectionate with you.
We always end up with hands together,
eyes searching one another’s faces,
for now…
Because I’ve kept away long enough to become interesting to you again.

I don’t want to fall for you.
I’m barely even attached.
But I do love the way you wait for me,
the way you ask, with a pretenses of a gentleman,
if you may walk me upstairs to get coffee.

And honestly,
I love it when you sweet talk me.
Because I’m a sap and
a fool.
A pretty, little fool
all for you.

You’re more alike
than you will admit.
It’s the bow ties,
I think.
It’s the way you speak,
and I’m wasted without
needing a drink.

I fall into your tone like
I’m plummeting from a cliff.
Catch me in this mesh of sensation
and rhythm.
You owe me a mixed CD.

I guess this is the long way of me saying,
so many times,
I’ve looked up at you,
and wanted you to bend down to kiss me.

Writing this now,
is expelling it out of my system
knowing you’ll never read it,
unless it’s in print.

And as twisted as it may be,
this is my present to you.
“May all your wishes come true.”

I’m thinking about you,
regardless if you want me.


Sweater Weather

I have decided that

I am willingly to let you

Undress me with

more than your eyes

If it means that by morning,

I can wake up in your Oxfords,

bare legs and bed head,

only to have you rush forward,

fingers fumbling to unbutton,

as our lips crash;

your hands aggressively roam flesh,

and you say I look the best

when I’m drenched in oblivion.

When morning breaks,

I will slide out of bed,

as the early sun shines in,

I will tiptoe downstairs and out the front door.

I’m leaving your house,

with swollen lips,

and a slouchy cardigan,

concealing my outfit from the day before.

This walk of shame

suddenly becomes a runway.


we both know I wear you better anyway.