thanks for showing me the way.

i’ve realized christian

ideals are something 

you can 

simply switch on

or off—

beating people

over the head with

a book of 

misquotations

while fucking

your homely

girlfriend

every night. 

very rarely do i

judge, but your

lack of 

commitment 

is simply appalling—

you ate meat every

friday this last

spring. (that

was not referring 

to your girlfriend,

by the way).

even i have some

morals—

so tell me again what

leviticus 

said. 

hold your breath when passing cemeteries--breathing is disrespectful to the dead.

and when i die—
(you know i will)
bury me at nisky hill.
there, the ghosts of
children dance
over the graves of
their loved ones,
grasping at the
clothes of the
living—
curious.

you are: my battered copy of lolita.

i think it’s strangely

tiring to be

loved,

it leaves you

worn and tattered

like a beloved book

marked teen lit-

erature. 

love is the 

human 

equivalent of

dog-eared pages— 

whole passages

high lighted,

notes scribbled in

the margins.

it’s exhausting and

exhilarating—

always in

the

present tense. 

hallelujah

i can feel it,

the cold air sneaks

through my open window—

it chills my skin, it

seeps into my bones.

and i can hear the

rain outside, 

pitter-patter—

and i can hear your 

heartbeat,

pitter-patter—

as you lay beside me 

i can feel your body

heat and it warms 

my skin right down

to my bones.

i can lie awake at

3AM thinking of how 

life is full of these 

contradictions but 

all i can muster is an

hallelujah 

before falling 

back asleep. 

i try, i try, i try.

what can i do to 

quell your loneliness? 

i have no anecdote 

for a broken heart. 

i try,

swallowing my own

frustrations.

but my words are

never helpful—

my voice shakes. 

spring fever.

the smell of spring
makes me think of you—
and the very scenes
define us.
we are the contrast
of fallen white petals
on red brick sidewalks—
a sudden rain and then
nothing.
i wish i could say that
we’re madly, truly, 
deeply in love—
spring fever.
but i’m not sure
that i can (and
i think that’s
the point).

goodnight moon.

only night can bring
this darkness,
all-encompassing 
and quiet.
grotesque and
peaceful,
some days i 
hate to see
the sun.

there's a proverb about this somewhere.

it’s okay to dance

in public—

feel the earth’s rhythm. 

people stare—

they don’t understand.

it takes a tragedy to

hear the music. 

saving fish from drowning.

maybe i can’t prevent
every
 bump in the road.
after every
 rain filled pot hole
i find myself sinking—
with
little hope of
reaching
the surface.

one spring night.

i was afraid,
when darkness fell—
the grass moon shining
 through my
open window.
the curtains billowed
with the cool
night breeze, but
i didn’t feel
any different.

while the women come and go.

her voice sounds like sugar
and her breath is laced
with smoke.
her hands wrap around
an old coffee mug,
steaming.
“i think if i’ve measured my life
in anything,”
she says
“it’s been darkness.”

womanhood.

her eyes,

haunting-

she stares like a 

broken doll.

limbs, 

pose-able, 

she waits-

unmoving. 

her lips,

painted,

conceal what 

she can never

say. 

she’ll end up 

discarded but,

they say that’s just

the way 

it is.