no poems match that search.
01.
a gift too heavy to bear
i held my breath, hoping you wouldn’t notice the vastness of this gift. i leaned into your joy as if it were my own. i couldn’t…
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i held my breath,
hoping you wouldn’t notice
the vastness of this gift.
i leaned into your joy
as if it were my own.
i couldn’t help but watch the distance
grow in your eyes.
and then you glanced at me
dismissive of the weight
i’ve placed on your shoulders.
this happiness,
a burden you carry so tenderly,
a love i’ve folded into your hands,
but a quiet trespass of my needs.
and i question the signs,
when your lips sew shut,
when your eyes drift away,
when your laughter falters just a breath,
if you’ve begun to feel the heaviness
of being loved
a bit too much.
02.
after the sentence
it’s been a while. i have grown in ways i couldn’t comprehend. i no longer confuse pain with proof, nor growth with punishment. i…
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it’s been a while.
i have grown in ways
i couldn’t comprehend.
i no longer confuse pain with proof,
nor growth with punishment.
i remember what i did.
who i was.
they forgave me.
i watched them let go
and i couldn’t follow.
i am allowed to begin.
they already said so.
i just haven’t believed it.
the scar stays.
but it is no longer my name.
i will not carry
a life sentence
for a moment
everyone else has already outlived.
03.
always eighteen
she counts the seconds at every red light. eighteen, always eighteen. the radio plays music she almost recognizes. her hands at…
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she counts the seconds at every red light.
eighteen, always eighteen.
the radio plays music she almost recognizes.
her hands at ten and two.
a green sign. it says wichita.
she opens the same three websites in the same order.
her login expired again. she resets it.
the coffee machine chokes at seven, at one, at four.
someone’s birthday in the break room. she signs the card.
her mouse clicks one hundred,
two hundred,
three hundred times.
going home the light is still eighteen seconds.
the sign for wichita again.
the radio plays the same almost recognizable song.
tomorrow she’ll reset the password.
the light will still be eighteen seconds.
and she’ll count them.
04.
belong to wonder
imagine yourself. you wake to the smell of the earth breathing, to the morning sun spilling honey over the ridges you don’t know…
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imagine yourself.
you wake to the smell of the earth breathing,
to the morning sun spilling honey over the ridges you don’t know the names of.
your fingers brush against the petals of a flower in an endless field.
and you realize,
it does not belong to anyone.
the gusts of wind carry stories to your ears,
warm and insistent,
begging you to hear them.
you understand that the world will go on.
whether you notice or not.
you take a step.
your feet meet grass, dirt, stones.
textures from rain and wear,
fire and snow.
you feel the pulse of a world older than fear.
but the knot composed of your obligations
tells yourself to be quiet.
but your eyes,
they have been waiting for this violent eruption of color.
the way the shade bends and stretches over the valleys,
the soft sway of the leaves
nudged by the tiniest hint of wind.
you take a deep breath.
and maybe for the first time,
it crosses your mind that this place
is ready to be noticed.
05.
bitter
i am not a bitter audience. at least i try not to be. i am genuinely glad your heart is full. glad something in this world has…
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i am not a bitter audience.
at least i try not to be.
i am genuinely glad your heart is full.
glad something in this world
has found its place in you.
this is the cruelest technicality
of being human.
i can praise your bountiful harvest,
without an ounce of food
on my own plate.
it is like watching rain.
the evidence is everywhere.
and the sound is so beautiful.
gutters overflow,
the asphalt shines under streetlights,
the smell, intoxicating.
and i’m stuck in the patch
where it does not fall.
in this hurricane of euphoria,
i remain dry.
i stand an inch
away from the downpour,
skeptical if a drop
would ever touch my skin.
06.
blackened grass
blackened grass forgets the sun. surrounding trees are tall, the walls too high, and the warmth never arrives. it drinks what…
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blackened grass forgets the sun.
surrounding trees are tall,
the walls too high,
and the warmth never arrives.
it drinks what spills through gaps,
detecting ricochets of light.
slowly moving to what it knows,
in name alone.
the wind moves,
the rain falls.
swaying underneath,
sipping from the pour.
it weeps salt of its own,
like a fox caught in a snare.
worn to the bone,
with nowhere left to turn.
fattening its desire
to break through the abyss.
knowing the light could burn,
wanting it all the same.
07.
by the time i say it
there is a traffic jam in my brain and every car is lit from the inside. the headlights point at questions that don’t have…
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there is a traffic jam in my brain
and every car is lit from the inside.
the headlights point at questions
that don’t have mouths.
it comes around enough,
this sentimental invertebrate.
but it keeps changing its name
by the time
i want to say it.
do i not know anything
or do i know too many things?
twenty corridors here,
with twenty more around the corner.
and every door leading to twenty more.
i feel things in chapters
but can only muster dirty captions.
my chest swells with monologues
but when i open my mouth,
nothing but warm vapor escapes.
i wish emotions were like furniture.
pointing at where i want it to go,
moving it out as i wish.
how am i supposed to translate a language
that forms beautifully in the dark
but dissolves in daylight?
how am i supposed to explain a color
that doesn’t exist in any visible spectrum
but stains all that i touch?
no.
should i leave it alone?
can i grasp the anatomy of my rumination
without needing a scalpel to dissect it?
i’d consider the fact
that it sounds like there’s nothing
flowing through my head.
like the pause is vacant.
or that searching for the right words
looks like not having them at all.
but it’s not empty in here, i promise.
thoughts fold over thoughts,
feelings interrupt each other,
meanings form halfway, then retreat.
i’m still learning.
one day,
i’ll hold it long enough,
so you can see it too.
08.
cathedrals of ash
the rules were written in another tongue, in ink that dries while i am still bleeding. i observe them pass the plate too far to…
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the rules were written in another tongue,
in ink that dries while i am still bleeding.
i observe them pass the plate too far to reach,
then they ask why i’m not eating.
i want to tear the world apart.
let the resentment scream where they’ve been cheated.
to make a sound loud enough
that deafness grasps the meaning.
my anger lives in clenches before the fist swings.
it builds cathedrals from the ash
of every time i swallowed the heat.
a tongue too scorched for speaking.
when the stained glass fractures,
and vaulted ribs gag from smoke,
the ash remembers a fire.
a fire that takes
and blisters stone.
09.
cognitive dissonance
you flip a coin and it always lands on heads. you get the green light, over and over again. you pour a shot, labeled “despair”.…
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you flip a coin
and it always lands on heads.
you get the green light,
over and over again.
you pour a shot,
labeled “despair”.
you take it down whole,
and just can’t seem to care.
or maybe you do.
and it’s all just a lie.
maybe you long to be free
of this decay, you can’t deny.
you see catastrophe down the road,
an obscurity of the entirety of you.
you know where you’re headed,
a windy path down,
but you don’t know what to do.
a vice you can’t escape,
a grip so tight it aches.
the addiction of authority
blurs the things at stake.
you tend to your spirits,
only one kind comes to mind.
barely feeding the other,
letting it fall behind.
you know it’s there,
even if you don’t say it aloud.
the path keeps bending forward,
and the air feels strangely loud.
10.
coming down
i was on top of the world, intoxicated by its allure. the earth offered itself to me like a confession. i became the space…
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i was on top of the world,
intoxicated by its allure.
the earth offered itself to me
like a confession.
i became the space
between sky and ground.
every corner, every cloud
tailoring the sky.
my eyes could not carry
an entire horizon
spilling over at once.
i felt the size
of the incomprehensible.
then the miles folded back.
a familiar exit.
the key found the lock
as it has always known.
the world has no idea
what i had just come from.
and by morning,
neither
would i.
11.
cosmos
the stage is set but there is no audience. everlasting, flowing, growing, changing, in the blink of an eye. yet an eternity, the…
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the stage is set
but there is no audience.
everlasting,
flowing,
growing,
changing,
in the blink of an eye.
yet an eternity,
the play lasts.
each scene ending
in chaos and rebirth
like a phoenix.
a phoenix aimlessly
flying through the cosmos
waiting to be done
with the lesson of resilience,
and start with spagetification.
breathe.
review your playbook.
just to learn mother
doesn’t know what rules are.
her mecurial intellect has spilled
into the chaotic endless paradise.
as the paint stains the canvas,
the darkness fills with a sense
of wonder and magic
that transcends the blood
of a thousand generations.
12.
cracks in the song
brighter days, easier breaths, softer ways. life was a song i knew by heart, every note in order before the fall apart. but trust…
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brighter days,
easier breaths,
softer ways.
life was a song
i knew by heart,
every note in order
before the fall apart.
but trust slipped,
and the needle tripped.
damaged grooves,
the melody stripped.
the rhythm halts,
and silence takes its place.
just a spinning record
in an empty space.
waiting for a song
it will never find,
playing out a ghost
of a better time.
13.
crossroads
i paved the way for two directions inside the same heart. one promised roots, the other, feathers. i can’t figure out which part…
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i paved the way for two directions
inside the same heart.
one promised roots,
the other, feathers.
i can’t figure out which part of me
is asking to be saved,
and which wishes to be free.
each step betrayed me
to the life i might have had
if i had turned back.
but i was not made
to stand at the crossroads forever.
what i cannot choose,
time will choose for me.
and i will learn to love
the life that finds me.
14.
crowded
i walk beside them, but we never meet. the ground beneath us feels like different streets. their eyes meet eyes that will never…
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i walk beside them,
but we never meet.
the ground beneath us
feels like different streets.
their eyes meet eyes
that will never find mine.
we share the same space
but never intertwine.
the laughter rises,
falls, and fades away.
i am the ghost among them
every day.
what fills their hearts
leaves mine completely bare.
we stand together,
but we’re not all there.
the night will end,
they’ll leave without a thought.
i was among them,
but i was not.
15.
don’t let me down
i had my own reasons. they sounded right when i said them out loud. you stood where i promised i would be. i wasn’t cruel. maybe…
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i had my own reasons.
they sounded right
when i said them out loud.
you stood where i promised
i would be.
i wasn’t cruel.
maybe that would’ve been easier.
cruelty has edges.
this was softer.
slower.
the version of me you believed in
couldn’t make it on time.
and the look you gave me,
said everything you didn’t.
i remember once you said to me,
“don’t let me down.”
you laughed when you said it,
but your hands were shaking.
i told myself there was time.
i missed it.
not by a lot,
but enough.
the door slammed shut
on my face,
without me inside it.
now you’ve set the table,
the same way it’s always been set.
only this time
there’s one less seat.
and i don’t know
if it’s empty because i’m gone,
or because you are.
16.
don’t worry
every disaster you mapped out in your head, how many came? you’re going through this graveyard and everywhere you look, you see…
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every disaster you mapped out
in your head,
how many came?
you’re going through this graveyard
and everywhere you look,
you see headstones
of what might have happened.
whatever scared you
either came unannounced
or not at all.
either way,
you were not ready.
so why do you pull your hair?
worry is not wisdom.
you’ve been afraid
long enough
to know it changes nothing.
17.
eyes that stayed
they roam the world, like glass, unfogged and unbroken. they name sorrow a weakness. call distance, dignity. but grief is not…
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they roam the world,
like glass, unfogged and unbroken.
they name sorrow a weakness.
call distance, dignity.
but grief is not failure.
to weep is to witness.
to kneel at the feet of what cannot be saved
and still offer your empty hands.
i have seen the dry-eyed
stare through beauty,
hollowed out of wonder.
seen them touch the edge of mourning
as if it were shame.
but i have carried mercy
in my soul like a wound,
soaked in the ruins of what mattered,
and said “yes,”
“i saw it fall.”
and i did not look away.
18.
far enough
i walk far enough into the world that it stops having opinions about me. the terrain raised on all sides, stones stacked against…
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i walk far enough into the world
that it stops having opinions about me.
the terrain raised on all sides,
stones stacked against the sky.
the breeze threaded my hair,
chest open like a mustang
without a fence to trap me in.
the ground changed.
an accident of green
amid miles of indifference.
shoes off, grass between my toes,
standing in the middle of something
that had no reason to be there,
and neither did i.
the air must have known me
by name,
the way it emptied me out
and somehow left me more full
than i’d ever been.
19.
faster
the song drops. my foot slams the gas. the road opened up. two lanes pitch black and the city peeling away - it must have known i…
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the song drops.
my foot slams the gas.
the road opened up.
two lanes pitch black
and the city peeling away -
it must have known
i was coming.
i don’t check the speed.
i don’t need to.
i can feel it in my teeth.
street lights drag into golden wires and
curves wonder why
i never brake.
it feels like instinct.
bass rattles my bones
but
i’m in unshakeable control.
dozens of lights ahead
become problems i solve
before i even get close.
a truck fills my lane,
left closing fast.
clutch in, drop two gears,
the engine’s going feral.
i take it the exact moment
it vanished.
the road is mine.
every lane,
every gap,
every mile.
the needle and my pulse
racing each other.
next time,
i’ll go faster.
20.
found
lost in the swell of a thousand eyes that look through you. in a sea of enormous commotion, you become smaller. just another…
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lost in the swell
of a thousand eyes
that look through you.
in a sea of enormous commotion,
you become smaller.
just another noise
passing through.
then your name.
a rope thrown down.
you spin around fast,
a compass finding north,
rushing to the voice of a face
that doesn’t blur.
to the only face in the flood
that knows you are real.
you’ve been found.
21.
hear me
look down with pity in my troubled state. i drown in a sea of woe. my weeping eyes hardly hold the weight as tears of anguish…
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look down with pity in my troubled state.
i drown in a sea of woe.
my weeping eyes hardly hold the weight
as tears of anguish overflow.
both my flesh and spirit wither fast,
consumed by heaviest grief that pulls me down.
i wonder how much longer i can last,
while my heart cries and frowns.
my days are cut short by endless gloom
and regret has stripped away my might.
i waste away and edge toward my tomb.
save me and bring me back to what’s right.
22.
i closed the windows
i built a home. a house with bricked up windows holds its faith in flickers of golden light. to shield the toll of endless…
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i built a home.
a house with bricked up windows
holds its faith in flickers of golden light.
to shield the toll of endless strife,
my soul lies barren, devoid of flight.
my skin turns pale,
my warmth lags behind.
my words become stale,
not a kindness you’ll find.
with every tear,
my spirit hides.
lost in the infinite,
consuming nights.
though scars may ache
and memories sting,
seek the healing
that devastation brings.
through the trials faced,
a heart learns to mend,
light slipping past gaps,
where broken hearts blend.
23.
”i could not stay”
what plays on repeat in the haze of a terribly average day, a thickness chokes the air and i’m wheezing, going astray. nobody…
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what plays on repeat
in the haze of a terribly average day,
a thickness chokes the air
and i’m wheezing, going astray.
nobody told me that moving
would feel like returning.
i’m right back to where i started,
the same old ache, consistently burning.
i don’t think it’ll leave me.
or that i’d let go.
i hope you stopped fighting.
i hope where you are,
there is no more trying.
if i could reach you,
what would you say first?
tell me “happy birthday”?
the words you saved?
or something raw and true,
“i could not stay, i’m sorry,
i know how much that hurts you.”
i want to say “don’t go”,
but we’ve run out of time.
the place where you’ve gone,
is it too high to climb?
one day i’ll reach you
when my path ends.
and you’ll see what i made
of the time that you spent.
believing in something
you could not stay for,
i’ll live it so loudly
it’ll break down the door.
24.
i don’t know how
i’m not afraid to die. all the days i’m free from thoughts of death, must prove it. or is that exactly what being afraid sounds…
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i’m not afraid to die.
all the days i’m free
from thoughts of death,
must prove it.
or is that exactly
what being afraid
sounds like?
car crash,
slow disease.
choking on my breakfast
in my dirty pajamas.
aneurysm while with friends.
in my sleep, if i’m lucky.
screaming, if i’m not.
i analyze the possibilities
and i know this test
can only be taken
once.
my heartbeat is a little too loud tonight.
beating a little too fast.
is it always this irregular?
this pain in my chest,
it might just be heartburn
or the start of knowing what’s coming.
what will it be like in the moment?
will i have time to understand it?
will there be pain?
how much?
for how long?
will i be alone?
i’m not afraid there’s an end.
i’m afraid that it’s already written in stone.
the year,
the place,
the method even.
every day i’m getting closer to it
without any way to prepare myself.
it could be anything
i can or can’t imagine.
today or fifty years from now.
it could be gentle
or it could be agonizing.
i’m afraid i won’t see it coming.
and i’m afraid i will.
25.
i surrender
i chiseled my house with my own two hands, then locked myself outside. every wall up was a guarantee to keep the chaos at bay.…
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i chiseled my house
with my own two hands,
then locked myself outside.
every wall up was a guarantee
to keep the chaos at bay.
and i’m standing in the weeds
at a faceless time,
gazing at my creation.
the blueprint dissolves in my pocket.
rain soaks the collar that i straightened.
the hinges of my planning
squeal in the weather.
what i built to steady myself
leans, curious about collapsing.
i pursue the tools
that are no longer here.
my mind drafts repairs
for storms miles away.
the weeds will move without instructions.
the rain will not consult me.
my breathing persists,
even without supervision.
my house will stand
or it won’t.
i take a step back
and let it.
i surrender.
26.
in reverse
the starved, the broken, the saddened, the betrayed, the full, the fulfilled, the unburdened, the exempt the starved feast on…
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the starved, the broken,
the saddened, the betrayed,
the full, the fulfilled,
the unburdened, the exempt
the starved feast on deficiency.
their hunger a dialect
the satisfied cannot speak.
the broken know the magnitude of light
through refractions,
becoming something else entirely.
the saddened have mapped
every inch of themselves.
their grief is cartography.
the betrayed,
architects of trust,
seen its schematics fail.
the full,
they choke on plenty.
their abundance a thickness
in the throat.
the fulfilled,
running past the edge of satisfaction,
hands stretched out wide
trying to grab more.
the unburdened,
floating untethered,
spared from the gravity
that holds the rest of us down.
the exempt remain untouchable.
shielded by systems made to absolve them.
their purity is purchased.
they are not required to understand
what the starved have tasted,
what the broken have become,
what the saddened have discovered,
what the betrayed have learned.
what was stripped from them
was the making of them.
those who never lost anything,
lost everything.
27.
inheritance
i woke up one day already behind. and it never let up. every achievement swallowed whole before it landed, and every milestone…
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i woke up one day
already behind.
and it never let up.
every achievement
swallowed whole before it landed,
and every milestone was
just the floor of the next expectation.
i have been quietly agonizing
in the direction of their comfort.
amputated parts of myself
that complicated their vision.
grain by grain.
until the person i was
became sediment
beneath the person they wanted.
and that is the brutality of it.
it doesn’t announce itself.
it sure hasn’t to me.
i complied for so long
that compliance
became my personality.
and i can’t find the disparity
between who i am
and who i became
to survive them.
i have my own life to live.
my own expectations to meet.
i don’t want to keep playing
a role in a show
to a character
i know i could be better than.
28.
it told me so
i packed my things before i cried, and cried before i drove. i left behind what kept me tied to everything i know. the road ahead…
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i packed my things before i cried,
and cried before i drove.
i left behind what kept me tied
to everything i know.
the road ahead said nothing much.
the mirror said too much.
i’m not the kind to lose my touch
but i’m losing it as such.
i’ll be someone new by june,
or possibly even sooner.
but i’ll sing slightly different lyrics,
i hope i sing it truer.
they’ll say i’m being brave. that i’ve grown.
they’ll swear it’s better this way.
but the separation of any home
leaves woe where there it stays.
it’s not that i don’t love you.
it’s not that this is wrong.
some things just ask you to begin again
before the courage is gone.
and that’s truly, the saddest part.
not that i chose to go,
but that i loved you with my whole heart
and it told me so.
29.
just browsing, officer
i’m about to stroll out empty handed. swinging my arms loose, i have nothing to hide. i’m the perfect civilian. but wait. my…
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i’m about to stroll out
empty handed.
swinging my arms loose,
i have nothing to hide.
i’m the perfect civilian.
but wait.
my strides are turning performative.
a casual half nod to absolutely nothing,
eyes locked onto an imaginary interesting spot
a few feet ahead.
the officer stays glued to his phone,
which somehow feels like accusation.
i’ve never radiated more guilt
than when i’m completely clean.
aren’t i signaling innocence
with my exaggerated normal steps?
i passed the sensors.
the beep stays muted.
that would only make sense.
but i still kind of expected sirens.
30.
keeper
we all see you. see what you show. your smile illuminates spirits yet deals yourself a heavy blow. we all see you. but not all of…
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we all see you.
see what you show.
your smile illuminates spirits yet
deals yourself a heavy blow.
we all see you.
but not all of us the same.
some see the smile,
some see the strain.
smiling but sad.
sad but still smiling.
do you know your truest ache is known?
that you don’t have to bear
what was never yours alone?
we hold what you won’t speak.
being seen by those who love you
isn’t the same as being weak.
we know that there’s a soreness
in being your own keeper.
the longer you hold this mask up,
the lonelier it’ll get, and deeper.
we know laying it down is terrifying.
we know the weight has settled in by now.
but we’re not asking for everything.
just show us where it hurts, and how.
i know it keeps you up at night.
i know trust doesn’t come for free.
but what if the one you’re looking for
was always somebody like me.
don’t be afraid to hurt.
there’s a mercy in yielding.
all you’ve been concealing,
is worth more than all the shielding.
even the heaviest skies
eventually find ground.
it’s okay to fall down.
we’ll still be around.
31.
leftovers
i made too much again. you’re not here.
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i made too much again.
you’re not here.
32.
let it be
we were never as careful as we pretended. running light, loving all the way. we kept pulling back, waiting for the right moment.…
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we were never as careful
as we pretended.
running light,
loving all the way.
we kept pulling back,
waiting for the right moment.
it never showed up.
let it be reckless.
let it be raw.
let it be everything.
always too much.
always not enough.
yet, we’re still reaching for it.
because we know
holding back is pointless.
33.
loss
their absence has rewritten my life’s direction. i try to navigate rooms they no longer occupy, move through time like someone…
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their absence has rewritten my life’s direction.
i try to navigate rooms they no longer occupy,
move through time like someone swimming against the current.
i replay conversations that will never continue.
inventing words i should have said,
building arguments with a ghost,
apologizing to someone who cannot hear.
they reach for me.
those who love me.
and sometimes i cannot find the door to let them in.
sometimes i do.
sometimes i want to but can’t.
sometimes only their presence keeps me tethered.
how was i supposed to explain
that their presence was drowning me?
that their presence reminded me of absence?
that i was afraid,
and also terrified of being alone?
34.
my stupid heart
my stupid heart, turning doorways into alters, leaving space beside me for a love that may never come. how wretched, how restless…
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my stupid heart,
turning doorways into alters,
leaving space beside me
for a love that may never come.
how wretched, how restless it is,
beating for a future it cannot see,
loving in absense. in silence.
and all i do is wait,
an old fool in a tower built on maybes,
clutching at ghosts of a love
not promised nor denied.
how unwise, my stupid heart,
beating like a bird against a glass sky,
mistaking the open air for a cage,
mistaking the cage for a home.
35.
nothing lives here
there is a place. where light loses its tongue. where the dust drifts endlessly like prayers without a god. the floorboards don’t…
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there is a place.
where light loses its tongue.
where the dust drifts endlessly
like prayers without a god.
the floorboards don’t remember names.
the walls don’t wait for you.
it’s been known,
that the muffle lasts longer than your voice.
even the shadows here refuse to follow,
and the dark has better places to be.
and maybe that’s all it ever was.
not the absence of people,
but the absence of being needed
by anything
at all.
36.
overflowing
i am thinking about thinking. watching myself watch. a conversation interrupted by dialogues i had four years ago. i rack it. i…
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i am thinking about thinking.
watching myself watch.
a conversation interrupted by dialogues
i had four years ago.
i rack it. i return to it. then i rack it again.
my mind constructs courtrooms for the innocent.
rehearses grief for losses immaterialized.
writes the eulogy when nobody is gone.
and i know.
i can see the whole machine.
every gear, every wire.
but seeing it
is just another part.
i used to think awareness was the cure.
that if i could give it a name,
i could set it down.
and somehow, even knowing that
this is just what it means
to be someone
who feels everything twice,
makes me feel uncertain
still.
37.
owe
the strong back owes the heavy stone. the steady hand owes the fragile bone. to hoard a strength you will not use, is the damage…
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the strong back owes the heavy stone.
the steady hand owes the fragile bone.
to hoard a strength you will not use,
is the damage that you choose.
38.
painted gold
we repaint the past in warm colors it never wore. we hum a song we never learned. nostalgia’s gentle lie, smoothing the rough…
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we repaint the past
in warm colors it never wore.
we hum a song
we never learned.
nostalgia’s gentle lie,
smoothing the rough edges,
filling the cracks with golden lacquer
until even the pain looks holy.
do we wish to believe
we were so content with our lives
that we search for comfort
in misshapen memories?
39.
philosophy of art
i think it starts with noticing. the way a writer crosses out the truest line and then puts it back. the way a composer writes…
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i think it starts with noticing.
the way a writer crosses out
the truest line
and then puts it back.
the way a composer writes the melody
around the one note
they couldn’t get out of their head.
the way a sculptor runs a thumb across the clay
and feels the difference between
what it is and what it wants to be.
nobody handed it to you.
you just kept coming back
to the only place
that made sense of the rest.
the stubborn, absolute refusal
to let the moment
pass unnamed.
something in you
just can’t stop itself
from turning back around,
kneeling down,
and looking closer.
a stranger’s laugh in the parking lot.
the way misery sits different
on a tuesday than a sunday.
the second cup of coffee,
the one you didn’t need
and why you poured it anyway.
everything left a mark on you.
you just could never stop
noticing where.
and i think that changes you.
the way slow things do.
closer to your own,
present inside it.
40.
safe like ghosts
two aliens sitting above the atmosphere. watching the world spin from inside their ship. the first taps the glass and bites his…
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two aliens sitting above the atmosphere.
watching the world spin from inside their ship.
the first taps the glass and bites his lip.
“i don’t really get them.” he sighed.
“they know their bodies will die. yet they stack up stone and build massive monuments and water their legacies. i see them writing down songs and stories. they litter their futures with what they call fame. i wonder if it’s just their way of saying ‘i was alive’.”
the second shifted in his chair.
his three pupils widening, fixed on the blue planet.
“and that’s not all. it gets much weirder.” he grumbled.
“they’ll find a gorgeous thing and watch it smoke. they show fierce adoration for the oceans and the valleys, then tear it to the ground and let it die. they’ll pull a lover close and promise many things, then break their hearts and push them away. it seems to be a pattern to destroy what you love.”
“and look at this.” the first shook his head.
“this guy is thrilled, but both of his eyes are red. why is he crying if he isn’t sad?”
“because” the second said, “it drives them mad. their hearts are way too small for what they feel, so joy spills out in tears as proof that they’re real.”
“they build sanctuaries out of the very ground that is waiting to bury them.” the first murmured. “they carve their names into trees that will rot, and speak of ‘always” into ears that will go deaf. it’s a madness isn’t it? to pour so much love and devotion into the things that are certain to collapse.”
the first pressed his face against the cold glass.
“there.” the first muttered. “that one is standing on the edge of a large coastal cliff. doesn’t he know that he can fall?”
“yes.”
“and he still climbed?”
“yes.”
“why?”
“some of them believe that safety isn’t the same thing as living. they fear the idea of only surviving their days, and surviving the fall makes the fall feel like a gift. they know that anything capable of exalting them is just as capable of breaking them. and that’s the bravest thing i’ve ever seen.”
the first leaned closer. his ears twitching.
“do you hear that? i just mentioned it. i can hear a story being told right now!”
“doesn’t this count as lying? why are they doing this to themselves? what’s the point?”
the second replied, “the truth of their world isn’t enough. magic comes out of their mouths to make reality a little more bearable. i think to a point, they need them.”
“need them for what?”
“to practice wanting. to practice losing. to imagine justice where there is none, mercy where there is little, endings kinder than the ones they were given, things to bring hope and wishes.”
“so it’s kind of like an escape?” the first asked.
“no. a kind of endurance.”
A pause filled the air. And they sat in the sparkles of flaring city lights.
“i’m glad we’re immortal. we’re not fragile like they are. we never decay or grow ill. we don’t have to grieve. how lucky we are to be safe from all that wreckage!”
“we are safe. but we are safe because we are ghosts.” the second whispered.
“when you live forever like we do, you don’t ever have to decide what matters. we hoard centuries. they pile up just like the dust in empty, forgotten rooms. but i can count their heartbeats with my fingers. they pay for every single choice they have and will ever make. every tower they raise, every promise they break, all the beautiful things they conceive is purchased with time from their vanishing lives.
we will outlast the stars, but they are the only ones who understand the tremendous cost of meaning something.”
41.
sentence without end
my guilt spits acid and disfigures my soul. i am still but not settled. evil has come for me. these acts i’ve committed, treason…
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my guilt spits acid
and disfigures my soul.
i am still but not settled.
evil has come for me.
these acts i’ve committed,
treason against those
who had no reason to doubt.
my eyes never close.
my heart never sleeps.
i dwell in this hell
that i have regretfully reaped.
my words cannot carry atonement,
my actions fall short
of any reconciliation.
two nights pass.
two months.
then two years.
fresh and never left.
apologies rehearsed
collapse before they hit the air.
i have not moved the way i used to.
time does not seem to remember
how to heal.
42.
shrines of defiance
they wanted me smaller. muted. grateful for the scraps. spite isn’t a pretty fuel. it doesn’t burn clean. but it burns…
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they wanted me smaller.
muted. grateful for the scraps.
spite isn’t a pretty fuel.
it doesn’t burn clean.
but it burns nonetheless.
something unyielding lives inside.
every gate they locked, i used a window.
and loudly.
they will not have the satisfaction
of watching me diminish.
i take up the space they subtracted.
say the thing they wanted me to bury.
built shrines from what they thought
was rubble.
i’ve won.
not because i have much,
but because the point
was never leaving.
43.
stuck in two
held between the boundless i crave and the solitude that holds me, i am suspended. gently chaotic and achingly alive. just…
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held between the boundless i crave
and the solitude that holds me,
i am suspended.
gently chaotic
and achingly alive.
just waiting,
desperate to become everything,
afraid of becoming nothing.
44.
table
my mother was at the stove, sleeves up, hair tied back, hand over the other to wait for the boil. the pot was a small one. it was…
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my mother was at the stove,
sleeves up,
hair tied back,
hand over the other to wait for the boil.
the pot was a small one.
it was the only one.
at the store she had put back the second cut of meat,
the bag of mushrooms,
a bottle of wine she paused at.
all i saw was the kitchen smell.
i saw the steam fog the window.
i saw the bowl draw closer to me,
and i saw her sit.
and i saw her watch me eat.
i ate. i told her it was good. she said good.
she did not eat first.
the plate she fixed for herself was a smaller one,
and i never saw her finish it.
she fed me what she did not have.
45.
terms & conditions
should i call it coping? it sounds better than giving up. i started calling it fate when it was just repetition with better…
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should i call it coping?
it sounds better than giving up.
i started calling it fate
when it was just repetition
with better excuses.
i’ve learned to nod
at things i’ve once bled over.
to sit through storms
with my coat already off.
this isn’t peace.
this isn’t what i wanted.
but my name is on that thin black line.
i’ve signed it in lowercase
and dated by habit.
exhaustion got the best of me.
and i let it keep me.
46.
the argument that proves it
maybe asking myself if i’m good isn’t the right question. maybe the real one is, “why does it matter what’s underneath it?” i…
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maybe asking myself if i’m good
isn’t the right question.
maybe the real one is,
“why does it matter
what’s underneath it?”
i keep growing hesitant,
trying to find the selfish part,
the hidden motive,
the flaw that explains it all.
and maybe it’s there.
maybe every kind word
is just self preservation.
maybe i do it to feel clean.
but the deed is already done.
i’ve already helped someone get up.
given without counting.
something still passed between us
that wouldn’t have
if i had let my doubt devour me.
i think about people
who never question this at all.
who give without looking,
who never need to see
what it’s made of.
and i wonder if the questioning
is its own kind of caring.
proof of wanting it,
not of goodness.
i can’t be conceited
about something
i’m this unsure of.
at least that’s what i tell myself.
perhaps that’s the answer.
hiding in the argument itself,
that asking means
i haven’t stopped
trying to deserve an answer.
i’ll do it anyway.
even if i have not yet figured it out,
because i can.
47.
the day is done
today did what today does. some of it settled harshly, a lot of slid by, most of it kept going. you don’t have to gather every…
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today did what today does.
some of it settled harshly,
a lot of slid by,
most of it kept going.
you don’t have to gather
every falling string
and tie them into something
that makes sense
before you let it go.
you can leave the mess
exactly where it fell.
no one is standing over your shoulder
waiting for you to decipher the day.
so let the replay button
have a rest.
you are here.
another day,
you have carried
yourself through.
the loose ends
have no claim
on your tomorrows.
48.
the dreams i keep
there’s a city of beginnings at my feet. i collect the first hours. the smell of unopened paint, the posture in the chair before…
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there’s a city of beginnings at my feet.
i collect the first hours.
the smell of unopened paint,
the posture in the chair
before i sit.
i am heavy with intention.
my hands know the balance
of tools still clean.
the garden planned
outgrows the garden planted.
i water diagrams,
speak to blueprints
like they could come to life.
i rehearse the life
i will not live.
staying where everything
is about to happen.
the finished task
is a small death.
no longer the painter of infinite paintings,
but the painter of this one.
even still,
why won’t i move
into forever
from the hour before?
i’ve built a boat
that will not set sail.
maybe the shore
was my destination
all along.
49.
the guest
so there i am, at a place other than my own, and the toilet won’t flush. just keeps spinning, that lazy cyclone. we are just two…
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so there i am,
at a place other than my own,
and the toilet won’t flush.
just keeps spinning, that lazy cyclone.
we are just two failures, two guests,
locked in a seemingly eternal dance.
it’s a porcelain prophecy of my degredation,
a fate that feels like i shouldn’t leave this bathroom alive.
i flush again. obviously.
praying that the third time’s the charm.
i’m waiting for a cleanse of my mess.
the water climbs.
and i age seven years.
i look around. no plunger.
why would there be a plunger?
that would imply a merciful god.
i sit on those tiles and close my eyes.
outside, they’re probably wondering where i’ve gone.
inside, i’m wondering whether i can fit through the window.
my hope is meeting its end.
i hear a knock at the door.
they ask me, “are you okay in there?”
“i am not okay in here.”
50.
the name of the ache
there is something without a shape, a stillness not quite still. it slips between the cracks of my thoughts and bends the…
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there is something without a shape,
a stillness not quite still.
it slips between the cracks of my thoughts
and bends the mornings will.
i reach for light, but taste the dusk.
i breathe but not with ease.
a stranger sits behind my eyes
and will not speak or leave.
like music from the room next door,
it’s simply undefined.
like words that slip from my own tongue
or dreams you can’t rewind.
and when you ask me what it is,
what shadow haunts my day,
i can only shrug and softly say,
“it must have lost its name.”
51.
the neighbor’s argument
thursday again. i hear her voice bleeding through the drywall. sharp at first, then a plead, then nothing. a hard thud against…
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thursday again.
i hear her voice
bleeding through the drywall.
sharp at first, then a plead,
then nothing.
a hard thud against the wall
swivels my head.
remote in hand,
i turn the volume up
to flood the place
with stupid laughing tracks instead.
“it’s not my business.”
this morning she passed me in the hall,
concealer failing to hide the bruising,
eyes lowered.
i nodded hello
like i always do.
now that same laugh track
repeats in my head,
but i doubt anyone’s laughing anymore.
i reach for the remote again.
then it hits me.
my silence
wasn’t neutral at all.
it was the loudest choice
i’ve made all week.
52.
the quietest exit
i loosened slowly, like a thread slipping from the hem of a dress. the shape still intact after it began to tear. i drank in…
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i loosened slowly,
like a thread slipping
from the hem of a dress.
the shape still intact
after it began to tear.
i drank in solitude
in sips so small,
no one noticed
how long i’d been thirsty.
i disappeared
in the spaces between replies,
where no one thinks to look.
by morning
there was no seam to mend.
only the fabric
remembering what it once was.
53.
the right key
i don’t know which key it was. only that this piano undid something structural. this wasn’t sadness. sadness i know. my body…
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i don’t know which key it was.
only that this piano undid
something structural.
this wasn’t sadness. sadness i know.
my body overrode every composure
i swear i owned.
my eyes streamed with tears
and my heart carried the weight
of many lifetimes.
i couldn’t even name what i lost
in that moment,
or if i lost anything.
but it came at me at an angle
and caught me off guard.
alone, saudade rests in its place.
filling the blank, heavy in space.
made aware that somewhere in me,
there is a room without a lock.
and the music knows where it is.
54.
the ripples remain
we sat at the brink of glassy lakes, watching the ripples whisper secrets that only reflections could hear. no laughter broke the…
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we sat at the brink of glassy lakes,
watching the ripples whisper secrets
that only reflections could hear.
no laughter broke the surface.
didn’t need to speak
to prove we existed.
we spoke in glances that held memories,
each exhale trembling the stillness.
and maybe we understood,
for a moment,
that reflections aren’t about clarity,
but recognition.
and as we rose to leave,
the water held our silhouettes just a little longer,
as if to remind us
that even unspoken things
leave gentle marks upon the surface.
55.
the song i sang
for years i sang it straight, “throw my hand on a plane for ya.” just the words as i heard them. i hit the “plane” hard every…
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for years i sang it straight,
“throw my hand on a plane for ya.”
just the words as i heard them.
i hit the “plane” hard every time.
PLANE. like it was the most obvious thing.
it was unfathomable for it to be
any other word.
bruno was most definitely
asking for total commitment.
i heard the passion in his voice.
so i gave it as loud as i could too.
in the car, at red lights,
passengers silent around me.
then the lyrics appeared,
“throw my hand on a blade for ya.”
blade.
not plane.
blade.
the silence in my head was deafening.
i’d even go so far as to say
i was distraught.
every emphasized "plane"
replayed now as me volunteering
for a very literal stabbing.
the “plane” version stuck with me
longer than it had any right to.
how embarassing…
56.
the sudden kinship
the world has built us in silos, wrapped in the static of our own noise, just lonely satellites in the dark. we lock ourselves in…
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the world has built us in silos,
wrapped in the static of our own noise,
just lonely satellites in the dark.
we lock ourselves in our own skin,
our own language.
but then, there’s a collision.
and it’s an awakening.
it’s the way the joke hits the air
and we both catch it at the same time,
a sudden, explosive burst of jubilation
that shatters the “stranger” between us.
within the brief moment,
we are stripped of the titles
we worked so hard to keep.
there is a terrifying intimacy in it.
looking into the eyes of someone you’ve never met
and seeing your own humanity staring back,
asking,
“did you feel it too?”
we are stitched together for a minute
by a shared cognition
of the absurdity of being alive.
we are no longer strangers,
simply because the timing was right.
isn’t it electrifying?
how quickly the universe collapsed the chasm.
how we were once just unknowns
who forgot to exchange names.
57.
the whole story
it starts as a spark, a twitch between my eyes. i feel a jab in my rib and i’m waiting for the world to blink askew. then i’m…
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it starts as a spark,
a twitch between my eyes.
i feel a jab in my rib
and i’m waiting for the world to blink askew.
then i’m honing sentences
before anyone speaks.
my hands find tension
and they fold before i think.
i see myself reacting.
hear the sharpening of my voice,
and i hate the way it fills the room.
how quickly i become someone
i have to apologize for.
i’m not proud of this part of me.
but i’ve stopped pretending
it’s the whole story.
some days, i meet it with gentler hands.
other days, i try again.
58.
then
not too long ago, we were weightless, spinning in smoke lit rooms, always chasing the high, listening to music that splintered.…
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not too long ago,
we were weightless,
spinning in smoke lit rooms,
always chasing the high,
listening to music that splintered.
we called them vices
but they felt like lifelines.
it pulled us to the edge of the dark,
and i’m still figuring out
whether it was a thrill, a fall,
or maybe
just a place where nothing hurt
for a little while.
and i don’t know
if we were ever meant to stay
or if we were always
meant to burn out
before we knew
we’d even caught fire.
were we saving ourselves
or losing ourselves?
59.
this morning
oh my, the cold. the best kind. the kind that makes me pull the blanket up chin high and snuggle and squirm and paddle my feet,…
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oh my, the cold.
the best kind.
the kind that makes me
pull the blanket up chin high
and snuggle and squirm
and paddle my feet,
then kick it off
because i want to feel it again.
i put the kettle on
and stood there just to watch it whine,
which i never do.
the window is all sky today.
somebody’s dog is losing its mind
over whatever is in the grass
and i do love that dog.
i love the grass.
i love whoever thought to invent
standing in a kitchen
in november
in socks.
the coffee is too good.
i audibly approve.
nobody hears it.
that’s totally fine.
actually, that’s perfect.
bliss like this
doesn’t need an audience.
it just needs a cup,
the cold,
and the window wide open
showing me
how little it takes.
60.
tree
an old man planted a tree in the last year of his life. he never told anyone who he was. never left a note to read. but he did…
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an old man planted a tree
in the last year of his life.
he never told anyone who he was.
never left a note to read.
but he did leave a tree.
you were there,
standing in its shade.
you called it a good day.
it was.
and it is.
61.
two kinds of giving
i memorized the way you breathe, when something hurts you before you decide not to say it. i love you the way you love a thing…
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i memorized the way you breathe,
when something hurts you
before you decide not to say it.
i love you the way you love
a thing you’re afraid of losing.
which means sometimes
i wrap my arms around you
before i notice you need air.
i’m learning the difference.
there are moments i lie awake
cataloguing all the ways
i made my love
your problem.
how this need for you to be okay,
is my need.
i don’t know how to want good things for you
without wanting to be a part of them.
but i keep showing up
even when i don’t know
what to do with myself.
i have to believe
that counts for something.
you are the person i call
when the world goes quiet
in all the wrong ways.
you answer.
and i don’t know
if i deserve that.
---
i passed a woman
who was crying
and didn’t want help.
so i kept walking.
there was this sense
of restraint and respect,
leaving someone to their own grief.
and i think about them all the time.
the ones carrying things
i can’t see.
the ones tired
in ways i simply can’t understand.
there’s a part of me that reaches
towards them without asking why.
but it isn’t pity. that’s all i know.
pity would look down.
this looks across.
i know what it is to be a person. i know how much that costs.
my strides create distance
but my heart is still there,
with her,
and my door’s still open.
62.
unclosed case
i have dreamed of letting go, turned it over, read it clean. examined every argument for the mercy in between. and yet my hands…
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i have dreamed of letting go,
turned it over, read it clean.
examined every argument
for the mercy in between.
and yet my hands won’t open.
not from hatred or from spite.
but forgiving means surrendering
the only verdict left to write.
it never asks the one who wronged.
only asks the one who bled.
costs everything from those who carry,
nothing from the ones who fled.
to forgive is to stand in court
and argue for the other side.
to call my own wound inadmissible,
to let the truth be tried.
they teach forgive and you’ll be free.
but freedom means you have to lose
the hurt that told you who you’d be.
and one day without warning,
my hands will just release.
i have not yet found the answer.
but i really needed peace.
63.
unimpressive
what am i trying to prove? i tell them about the new project i finished, another thing started from nothing, the thing i stayed…
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what am i trying to prove?
i tell them about the new project i finished,
another thing started from nothing,
the thing i stayed up until three every morning
to get right.
i hear them say they’re proud.
sometimes it sounds supportive even.
but it lands flat,
like a script they don’t believe in.
i can feel the difference between someone
who believes i am going somewhere
and someone who’s just being nice
about the fact i’m not.
their friends get to gloat about their kids.
acceptance letters and full rides
and big campuses.
i can just imagine the look on their faces
when my name’s the only one that doesn’t
get passed around the table
like good news.
i decided to go down this path.
i know it doesn’t look impressive yet.
no trophies, no headlines.
i feel like the kid who’s trying his best
and still falling short.
but i can’t ever stop.
quitting would validate their doubts.
so i’d rather die tired
than die proving them right.
64.
unreadable
the speak to kill the void, never considering the price i pay to hold the silence. they touch my shoulder like knocking on a…
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the speak to kill the void,
never considering the price i pay
to hold the silence.
they touch my shoulder
like knocking on a bolted door,
leaving when it won’t yield.
they’ll call it pretend
if pain doesn’t cry out.
they’ll call it fake
if joy doesn’t dance.
i am not what they see.
but who would search for a fire
in a house that hasn’t burned?
65.
wasn’t funny
he was talking about something so unbelievably forgettable. slightly funny but not really. my brain, traitor that it is, flashed…
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he was talking about something
so unbelievably forgettable.
slightly funny
but not really.
my brain, traitor that it is,
flashed instead to that one time
my cousin tried to suck up to a cop
after we got pulled over and he responded,
“why don’t you just be quiet.”
i almost died laughing
right then and there.
tried hiding behind my palm
like that ever helps.
he paused.
grin on his face as wide as ever.
started laughing too.
this guy…
deep and delighted because
his story totally landed so hard
it broke me.
the audacity!
i couldn’t say what was really on my mind.
i was forced to let him bask
in this undeserved glory
while the real hero was probably policing
somewhere in the middle of oregon.
66.
we are all that we are
i put my headphones on and the rest of the day went soft. each were working on something they’d been turning for weeks, none…
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i put my headphones on
and the rest of the day went soft.
each were working
on something they’d been turning for weeks,
none knowing what the others were doing.
i’m standing inside
a convergence
of separate urgencies.
they move within their own orbits,
living unseen narratives
like letters in their pockets.
everything is effort,
but none of it feels strained.
they are all building lives
in increments.
shift by shift
and thought by thought.
each act purposed
to something beyond this room.
we aren’t fragments
waiting to be assembled.
we are each a whole tension.
want and fatigue,
hope and habit.
an entire quilt
of our tenacity.
67.
what i did with my time
i sat with my daughter once on a porch that no longer exists. said something which is now a blur, but she laughed so hard her…
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i sat with my daughter once
on a porch that no longer exists.
said something which is now a blur,
but she laughed so hard
her whole body folded.
i kissed someone in 1977
who i never saw again.
a woman i met at a bus stop,
who told me i looked like someone
she missed.
that is what i keep.
who cares about the promotions?
what importance did the riches
i slaved over really have?
many years i gave to anger.
and many years i gave to goodness.
but i wish i sat longer
at the tables i rushed from.
i wish i said yes
to the trip my brother planned
the summer before he became ill.
when the world asks you to build something,
you build it. and you fulfill it.
you’ll understand one day
that it wasn’t what was built
that holds the value.
it’s about who sat across from you
while you were building.
i am old now.
my knees crumble
before my will does.
my hot chocolate’s getting cold
while i stare outside the glass panes.
there’s nothing in particular
but there’s everything there.
who should i have been?
what could i have done?
why was i so afraid?
if you ask me what i would change,
i don’t think i can make a list.
i’d just say i confused
living with responsibility.
i don’t know where it went sideways.
i had dreams that couldn’t wait
to leave my chest.
i fed them excuses
instead of hours.
i told them next year,
until next year was this year,
and then the next.
but those ordinary moments.
i miss them.
i moved over too quickly
onto something
i don’t think i truly wanted.
68.
what was never given
i mistook the gaze for gravity. believed the way you looked at me could keep me from falling. i begged for presence like it was…
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i mistook the gaze
for gravity.
believed the way you looked at me
could keep me from falling.
i begged for presence
like it was permanence.
thought being seen
meant being held.
i measured my worth
in moments you noticed,
calling these fragments
a foundation.
but mirrors can’t hold me.
and shadows don’t stay.
69.
you got it
you got the thing. i smiled for you. i meant it, mostly. that’s the part that keeps me up. how genuine it was, how fast it soured…
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you got the thing.
i smiled for you.
i meant it, mostly.
that’s the part that keeps me up.
how genuine it was,
how fast it soured
on the drive home.
i replayed your face.
i could tell you didn’t even know
how much i wanted it.
the way it just landed on you
like it was always yours.
it might’ve been.
somehow,
that’s worse.