It’s amazing how you can agonize over a decision to the point of physical illness—
aware, suddenly, of the acids burning through your bowels—
awake, again, stuck living your life in a moment that only exists as a projection.
Play, rewind, pause, play.
A private performance of failures and fears.
A multiverse of miseries.
There’s permanence in pain, but the sickness will pass.
Anxiety is a shapeshifter, a doppelgänger.
It disguises itself, in the cleverest of ways, as conscious thought.
But even knowing it’s true name can’t make it go away.
You have to dig at it, expose its roots to the open air,
and watch as it slowly suffocates.
Don’t clean up afterward, either.
Leave the corpse rotting in the garden.
Feel the chill winds singe your exposed nerves.
Because that’s the real you, down there,
not these mechanisms of survival
under which you’ve been buried.
Pearl
To sing her praises,
with my voice,
would be to paint the ocean
on the back
of a napkin.
And yet I’ve tried,
because words are all I have
running through my brain,
and through my veins,
and out my broken mouth.
When I see her again,
after all this time,
these words will break apart,
and all I’ll have is an open heart
spouting nonsense to the beat
with my voice,
would be to paint the ocean
on the back
of a napkin.
And yet I’ve tried,
because words are all I have
running through my brain,
and through my veins,
and out my broken mouth.
When I see her again,
after all this time,
these words will break apart,
and all I’ll have is an open heart
spouting nonsense to the beat
Tunnel Vision
I am unmade, as this bed
I can never seem to leave.
I sit, with cloudless eyes, and stare
into this tunnel of artificial light.
Like Janus, I see into both
the past, and the future—
but never the present—and in
both directions, death: imminent, eminent, permanent.
Our lives divide infinity in two halves,
each governed by our total nonexistence.
I am a bubble in the breach,
a teardrop in the sea.
I am all that will ever be.
I can never seem to leave.
I sit, with cloudless eyes, and stare
into this tunnel of artificial light.
Like Janus, I see into both
the past, and the future—
but never the present—and in
both directions, death: imminent, eminent, permanent.
Our lives divide infinity in two halves,
each governed by our total nonexistence.
I am a bubble in the breach,
a teardrop in the sea.
I am all that will ever be.
The Cagelings
I don’t know why, but you were always the key.
Unlock my rib cage and let me flutter free.
We’ll make a nest of our twiggy limbs
And teach our chicks to sing.
Unlock my rib cage and let me flutter free.
We’ll make a nest of our twiggy limbs
And teach our chicks to sing.
The Hollow
This year has sucked the
tears from my eyes, the
blood from my veins, the
marrow from my bones.
I am left hollow,
cracked in this crater,
lying as I fell,
broken by the earth.
What’s left is a pile
of empty organs,
discarded, shredded,
like old wrapping paper,
that could have once held
anything.
tears from my eyes, the
blood from my veins, the
marrow from my bones.
I am left hollow,
cracked in this crater,
lying as I fell,
broken by the earth.
What’s left is a pile
of empty organs,
discarded, shredded,
like old wrapping paper,
that could have once held
anything.
Cavities
When I slow down I can hear it—
the rising drone of dread.
Inhale
and feel it echo in my empty chest.
Exhale
and feel it whistle through the cavities
in my teeth and in my soul.
If I try to speak I will surely vomit
my darkness into the impartial air.
So I will sit, a ship in a storm in a bottle,
and swallow.
the rising drone of dread.
Inhale
and feel it echo in my empty chest.
Exhale
and feel it whistle through the cavities
in my teeth and in my soul.
If I try to speak I will surely vomit
my darkness into the impartial air.
So I will sit, a ship in a storm in a bottle,
and swallow.
House Arrest
I wish I could strip the bed,
and wash you out of the sheets.
Instead, I have to wear you,
like my only set of clothes,
until your threads unravel,
and I can scrub you away
from my suffocating skin
with water too hot
and soap too strong-
until I realize,
dispassionately,
that pieces of me
wouldn’t let you go,
and were flushed away.
Sometimes moving on means leaving you both behind.
Brick your bodies in the walls of the house you shared.
Hang your skeletons up neatly in the closet.
Shut off the lights and leave the key under the mat.
Now stop—breathe it all in. Remember it just-so.
Suck the stench of death deep into your languid lungs,
and walk away, slowly—so the ghosts don’t follow.
and wash you out of the sheets.
Instead, I have to wear you,
like my only set of clothes,
until your threads unravel,
and I can scrub you away
from my suffocating skin
with water too hot
and soap too strong-
until I realize,
dispassionately,
that pieces of me
wouldn’t let you go,
and were flushed away.
Sometimes moving on means leaving you both behind.
Brick your bodies in the walls of the house you shared.
Hang your skeletons up neatly in the closet.
Shut off the lights and leave the key under the mat.
Now stop—breathe it all in. Remember it just-so.
Suck the stench of death deep into your languid lungs,
and walk away, slowly—so the ghosts don’t follow.
The Transcendents
For you I will ever be
Everything you ask of me
And if what will serve you best
Is my silence I will be
Nothing
Everything you ask of me
And if what will serve you best
Is my silence I will be
Nothing
Crossed Stars
I call this collection The Unfettering.
For me, writing is all about
making tangible the wraiths of
depression and regret, of
helplessness and isolation.
From above, these profound gulfs
are nothing more than a vast,
wasted capacity for love.
To feel empty is to have once been filled.
When I am happy,
my pen dries up,
or rather, is set
to another purpose.
Meditations on Pain
I have never felt invincible,
the way uncreative people say
that young people are supposed to feel.
If anything, as I've grown older,
my emotions have slackened their grip,
given in to pleas for mollification.
There are days that I feel nothing more
than a distant drip of denial,
nights where I sleep without incident
and wake without feeling anything
at all.
And it could be that those days and nights,
are slowly increasing in frequency,
and when it's time to die I may feel
nothing at all.
the way uncreative people say
that young people are supposed to feel.
If anything, as I've grown older,
my emotions have slackened their grip,
given in to pleas for mollification.
There are days that I feel nothing more
than a distant drip of denial,
nights where I sleep without incident
and wake without feeling anything
at all.
And it could be that those days and nights,
are slowly increasing in frequency,
and when it's time to die I may feel
nothing at all.
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