You remind me of my father, not in a good way.

You remind me of the ice that sets in when he makes a mistake; no flexibility, no desire to change.

You remind me of

the times he called me stupid, and she stood by and watched my face crumble in pain, yet made no move to console me, reaffirm me; love me.

the few times he said he loved me, but when it mattered he hurt me more instead of helping me heal.

the times he realized he was wrong, but never apologized.

You mostly remind me of the wall I never learned to get through.

of love half given, half shown, never fought for.

I wanted you to remind me of anyone but him.


In Passing

I look at photos of you, from before, and it feels like another piece of my ventricle is closed off. I wait for the dull ache, but the feeling burns. Memories tainted every time I go back to use them to hold on, but all I hear is “was this the real you”. Who is the real person, how real are you with me? Things I never questioned before you betrayed me. Slow and long I’m suffering, because now we don’t speak, when before hours couldn’t pass without you wanting to hear from me, days never passed that you didn’t call to hear my voice, I don’t remember what you sound like, smell like, taste like. You’re foreign to me, like an amnesia, waking from a long sleep, thinking you’d be there, yet I’m always alone, I gave up thinking I’d hear, “I’m home”, the moment is gone.

I miss you all the time, you think I don’t, maybe you don’t think of me at all, but I think of you, every single day, not for a second, but for minutes, sometimes I have to tell myself to think of something else because I can’t stop remembering how good things were when we had them; even when they weren’t really that good. You thought I didn’t love you, because I liked someone else too. You’d come home and not speak, just eat, wine, and tv. What kind of growth or healing could we have like that, barely speaking, never seeking. You gave up on life, say what you want, but I saw it in your eyes, how could I love you, and be happy, when you didn’t love yourself? These questions I always ask myself, what else could I have done to help. I fed you, made sure you had a place to move, gave you enough money to pay for a semester or two of school, and I wasn’t the only one, your father helped you too, but you liked to leave out these details, it’s why I stopped trusting you. You burrowed in your mind, made it up on who I was to you. Forgetting all the sacrifices I made, and all the pain you’d brought me, you just said fuck me. You left me with debt, bills unpaid, collections screaming your name, money you owe me, yet you refuse to speak. What type of man are you? To love a woman the way that you do? Fill her head with all these promises, just to leave at the first sign of turbulence. I wonder all the time, what I did to deserve the pettiness and I realize for you, I stopped believing. My biggest sin is I no longer saw your potential, I didn’t see the man I thought you could be, I just saw a bum, looking for his next score. That’s still all I see, and it hurts, because you meant so much more to me. Even still I love you, although I try so hard not to.


out, fly back to when it started, zoom

in to that smile you had when your conversations

seemed to go on and had no end, remember the nights, where

you stayed up to look at each other, to touch, rewind,

it was a different time, everything slid from your tongues, now

bamboo under your nails can’t get you to talk, pincers pulling,

barely anything to grab, yet you try, you want to hear the

laughter again.


Begin to End 

They want you to do what’s best for you until that best excludes them, leaves them behind, or can’t be satisfied by just them. When you need more because everything you had is destroying you, so you have no option but to start over or die as more pieces of yourself are razored away into faux stretch marks. When your own hands need to be left behind because they leave marks of darkness across your “perfect skin”, and your mind needs to be left behind because it tells you everyday you’ll never make it without jumping off the edge, without burning everything around you to the ground, or without watching as everything melts like crayons under the Las Vegas Sun. 

Bleeding until it’s all mixed. Into something beautiful? Something abstract? Something that hardens and becomes twisted from the original rainbow of beauty? The most beautiful things can turn into something you don’t recognize when the damage becomes too much, when the paper holding it together weakens, the beauty leaks out, oils stain the paper, even when what made it beautiful is gone, it’s never forgotten. How can it be when that’s the only reason it was ever wanted. 

What is this twisted thing, feet dangling, hands gripping the rail, mind miles down searching the ground for answers never found. How long to hit rock bottom, to begin again or embrace the end. To rise again or leave the splatter of color trailing into the sea and soaking the fallen leaves. 

Don’t want the world to know I’m by myself…don’t want the world to know I’m on your shelf…There’s no coloring around us anymore

– Coloring by Kevin Garrett


I can feel you, right above my skin, the warmth

of your need makes me shake a spearmint

breeze, that hollow ache is there, in the pit

of my stomach, waiting to be filled by you over

and over again. I close my eyes, darkness giving way

to images of you caressing me. The smell of your

skin, the taste of the sheets, my hands reach out, wishing

you were within reach. I feel the tightness release and

tighten again, wanting something to hold onto. Imagining

the moan you would make, brings my own, it’s been torture.

Images of things I haven’t yet seen plague me, raise my

curiosity like the arch I want you to put in my back. A

few touches have me scorched. Any time I remember

where your hands met skin, it sweats, burns even. I

feel it like a trail of hard earned sweat running

between my breasts and into my navel. I feel it

like hands pressed against my hips to keep me

angled just right on the bed. My thighs

shake, remembering the sight of your

head between them, imagining the

feeling of what could have come

from those lips. My toes point

giving me more movement

to arch, to reach you, to

reach what I want to

feel; to release.

Might As Well

be alone. Because what is the point?

People swear they love you, but when

you’re down

and out

it’s only you, you can turn to. When

your back is against the wall, and you’re

looking for someone to break

your fall, just to realize they stole the grass

to help soften the blow.

Confused by the love people claim they feel,

when anytime there’s a problem, they can’t heel.

If you, gotta do it all on your own, you might as well

be all alone.

Why stress yourself with the problems of someone else,

when they’re one of the reasons, your life got mess?

How important are they, to suck your joy, and spit on

your hope, with no recourse?

Might as well be alone.


False Pictures

The dream began with the flashing of a smile, hope pressed between tongue and cheek. a vision of deep brown. The pressing of chocolate and warmed honey, seeping into pieces that haven’t seen light. The stems caress, releasing the smell of wanton need, colors dripping upon the canvas, drops splashing, trailing along the curves. Between the land and the sea, what was found was again lost to me. Between the waves and the bed, the dream was swept away. Lost, pulled into the deep, curiosity, lack of direction pulled; until it was just too deep.

I can’t talk to you anymore, it seems to be at, but to a wall not a person, and my time seems lost. I wonder more and more, about time cashed in, never to be seen again. Maybe we were friends, or two sinners making excuses for the things we did. I sought the same thing, and lose it in the hope of what could be, never seeing what is until the thrumming of need becomes a docile pitter patter, lost rhythms into silent beats.

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