the rain falls
like it needs to.
Like crashing against
a windshield
is the only comfort
it will find.
It falls with a  purpose,
making its point,
arguing its love
for making puddles.

I fall in love
with the same purpose.
To feel the crashing,
to be intentionally reckless.
To see her smile
and choke on that poison.



I get lost
in the hour
I sit with you.
Under the spotlight lamp,
I confess everything
with my eyes.
You ask me if there’s anything else
like I’ve committed a crime
and you’re looking
for the one thing
to write down.
I am a collection
of lined post-it notes,
an ego boost
because you know too much.

Breathe Them In

Growing up,
the other kids always said
that holding your breath
while passing a cemetery
would keep the spirits
from entering through your mouth.
As if a thousand families
would have to visit your house
just to mourn their loved ones.
You’d have to hope
that your gag reflex
could handle so many ghosts,
that your throat wouldn’t get sore,
your heart wouldn’t get heavy.
That you wouldn’t end up
with bleeding lungs
from coughing up the dead.

Office Door

You left your door wide open
but you were already
gone for the day.
Everyone’s secrets
were in the hallway
escaping the darkness
of your office.
They were in a language
all of us can understand.
They wanted to be found
and dissected
like animals
in a high school science class
for the credit
of getting through all the pain.
I asked the front desk
if you meant to leave
everything so vulnerable,
if you needed some space from it all.
The girl working said no
and that she’d go back there
to lock everything that got out back up.
I hope when you get there in the morning
it’s not all too much to handle.
I hope you remember
to lock up next time.


My bare and restless chest
is lit up from the glow of this screen
and right this second and always,
I am so frustrated
that I can’t send you
every love note
I compose for you.
I am naked
except for socks.
I am naked
except for these words.
You could read
all of the writing on my skin
and ask what it means to me.
I would tell you every story
behind each inked line.
I hope you wouldn’t get bored.
I hope you’d stay.


Inhale dirt,
exhale flowers.
My lungs are gardens
with roots tangled,
reaching deep
to where the earth sees no light,
where hands find cold mud.
Rows of spring
line my throat,
my heart beats blooms from my chest.
Tulips, daisies, moonflower, and poppies
all collected into bouquets.
I am part of the healing wounded,
knowing softness better than I used to.