Full Moon

The poetry that once flowed through my veins is gone,
No longer there to blunt the edges of my emotions,
Leaving me with only sharp letters,
Letters that find their way into my mind at night,
Forming dangerous words,
Thoughts of death and being alone, of times long gone,
And of those yet to be.

It is 1:56 AM and my veins feel empty, filled with stale air,
And I long to feel my heart beat for something that matters,
More than just to sustain this fragile life,
This fragile thing that aches and fears and hopes and loves,
And cannot find the words to pray.

I am afraid, and it is something I need to learn to survive,
Because I will never have my answers,
Or even the comfort of knowing they will someday come,
Because they may not ever make themselves mine,
I may always find myself awake some nights, afraid,
Hoping that my words may guide me home.


i lie awake beside you
alarm clock blinking the wrong time
fan blades spinning lazily overhead
and covers exiled to the floor
i trace my fingernails across your back
writing, rewriting, revising
all the words i might use
to describe to you what you’ve
come to mean to me
but long after your breathing steadies
i have only a single word to whisper
into your hair


Last night I saw you sleeping
arms tucked in, knees up
cradling yourself because it’s been
so long since anyone else would 
Last night I saw you sleeping
mouthing words I couldn’t hear 
to someone I couldn’t see
lips moving in silent agony
Last night I saw you sleeping
so lonely in my bed, so I
wrapped myself around you
and hoped for better mornings

If I’d tried, would you have?

My fingers intertwine with yours, our lips the same,
As the sun cools itself above our heads,
Flowing downward and fading like a molten river of gold,
The riches of all men once known and now forgotten,
Cascading down and further down, like the liquid metal
    that is your hair, rushing in a fall to crash into
    your shoulders.
Beneath and between our toes, the grass springs forth from
    the earth,
A pleasant feeling that reminds me that you and I are one,
That all are one, that we all sprout from the same roots,
To look up at the darkening sky and see not the spaces
    between the stars, but the stars themselves,
For we are all the children of dead suns, who sacrifice
    all so that we might live, and they might live in us.
The grass is soft, and we lie awake and give thanks to
    our distant parents, one by one, until we lose count
    and drift away to sleep,
You and I and Walt Whitman.


I stare into the glare of the lights, their harshness causing me to look away almost immediately. The strings to his gown flutter behind him as he walks - restlessly, with purpose but no real direction. “I think this place is against me.” I regard him curiously, unaccustomed to being spoken to by strangers. “I think this place is against me,” he repeats, his tone conversational. I ask the question he wants to hear. “Why is that?”

He spins on his heel, and I watch the butterfly strings bounce up and down with each step. “I mean, I know THEY’RE against me, but I’m starting to think the place is too.” I watch, unsure of what to say, as the strings abruptly stop. Looking up, I see that he is watching me expectantly. I blink, then realize. “What are you here for…?” He nods, then resumes pacing. I have pressed the right button, rewound the toy’s spring. His tone is still conversational. “Stomach cancer.”

I am so surprised I don’t even respond. He’s my age. Maybe a little older, but definitely not even twenty yet. Those kinds of things don’t happen. But I notice without wanting to the dark circles under his eyes and that his head is bald under his baseball cap. All this, he reads on my face, and he stops pacing again. His eyes plead with me, yet he stands defiant, just barely an adult but still somehow a lost little kid playing at being Davey Crockett. “Just tell me I’ll be remembered.” I still don’t know his name, and I’ve only had a few minutes to learn his face, but I nod and it doesn’t feel like a lie. “You will be.” He nods back at me, and I could swear I see tears starting in his eyes, but he turns and walks back out of my life. I watch the butterfly strings bounce away.

Two days later, I go to the nurse’s stand to ask about vending machines. There are two women: an older white lady, shortish and a little portly, lines on her face etched in by a master artist’s chisel as if to say “see, the smile used to be HERE.” And a younger black woman who seems somehow older. She has creases between her eyebrows, and her lips are pursed in a way that seems very permanent on her. As I approach, they are talking and looking at a chart in the black woman’s hands. Words drift lazily towards me. “… can’t believe it.” “So young…” “Well, things like this happen…” The white woman sighs, then carries about her business. The black woman just stares at the chart, unmoving, her brow creased and her lips pursed.

She sets it down and I run sobbing back to my mother’s room and hug her. She asks me for a story, seeming tired and worried, but knowing that she’ll be out soon. I wipe my eyes and tell her one about butterfly strings and promises made to strangers.

Smiling at Strangers

I’ve started trying to smile at strangers
This is a little strange for me, because I’m a bit of an introvert
My idea of flirting is being in the same room as you
for MORE than ten minutes
I’m not good at small talk, I can’t
walk up to someone and start a conversation
But I’ve started trying to smile at strangers
Because me not knowing them is no reason not to love them
No reason not to want them to be happy
So I offer a smile
Because maybe there’s someone whose day I can brighten
Maybe I can lighten the load they carry down the road they must follow
and even if I can’t take the same way, at least I can say
"I’m here for you."
Because that phrase is more than just the sum of its parts, at its heart
it speaks of understanding, the kind of understanding that brings me to your
door at 3 AM with a candy bar and a bad movie because you said you weren’t sure
if you’d make it to tomorrow
So rather than let you etch new lines into your skin like a roadmap to a destination
you have to get to but just can’t find, I remind you that chocolate is your favorite
and that a movie doesn’t have to be good to be good.
Sometimes disasters can be beautiful.
And you being a mess right now doesn’t mean you’ll always be. When I look into your eyes, I see
a compassion that’s rare in the world, you hurl your heart out into it and even though it
comes back broken more often than not…
You keep trying
Because you know that in a dying world, the only way we’ll survive is if we love each other
If we smile at strangers
If we forget about the danger that comes from giving yourself completely
And I refuse to believe that this world is so cruel that it would rule in favor of
ignoring this kind of selflessness
That it would let you live a life that doesn’t end with a standing ovation,
a curtain call where roses are thrown at your feet, a grand finale that lights up
the sky with your radiance and turns night into day
But until then, when night does come
and brings with it the demons that
work their way under your skin and begin to gnaw at the softest parts of you
I’ll be here for you
I’ll hold you through the night
And kiss your hair when you finally fall asleep
Because you bring light to my dark world
And that is worth anything that I could give


It’s exhausting.
Ever since you left,
taking with you all
the best parts of me,
I am left with only
bones, weary from
the weight
of missing you.
I gather up quarters
and my clothes and
it’s exhausting
to have to look at
the sweater I have
left unwashed
because your scent
still clings
to its threadbare
It’s exhausting
to even now feel
the weight of your
head on my chest
and the weight
of your words
on my soul.
I guess I knew
from the start
that it would end,
that we were
destined to grow
and fall apart,
but now it’s real
and it’s exhausting.

Your sighs still haunt my bed
Red Flags

when i look back
at you and me
and us
and all you put me
i cant pretend
the signs werent
i knew
the whole time
does that make it worse?