when the wandering writes for the first time

will someone teach me
to put my mind into words
(and not into my skins)?
because it’s been too long since
i wrote poetry,
and i don’t know if it’s because
i stopped feeling
or if i stopped trying to feel
or if i started
feeling too much altogether.
whiteness is too loud and bland
for ink,
so can you please sit and drown
out the light with your darkness?


floating consciousness

when you start to choke from the emptiness of existence
you wonder if breathing was meant for a life in water.

will my thoughts continue to float even when if i sink it into dark waters stained from the very warmth that gave life to being?

candles and closure

daisies reminded me of the forgotten and (commonly) flawed; they have become my favorite since you. i’m not sure if you realize, but
all i ever needed were the dimmed down flickers of flames in a dark room, the last of my cup of tea cooled by the hour of my thoughts.
dear, do you still remember when you told me that the only people in the world who have full closure are those who
don’t need it?
you never asked me why. i guess it meant you didn’t need to.

your type

i find more comfort in streetlights than the cold hearth of home.
will there ever be a day when my words mean enough for you to consider that maybe (just maybe),
i needed something more than your words, skin, being
to see a purpose in my words, skin, be-ing. because before i bought into your broken narrative of my perfection, i accepted my futility, but you, in your attempt to fix nature,
tore apart the remedy of oblivion that i have fed myself for years before

does it take stained bathroom tiles
to convince you
that it’s not
a phase?


“validate me.”

the air that you dispel from your lips should start meaning something.
nature nurtured me into nothingness,
but that doesn’t mean you should too.
woman graced you with breath, so
why are you afraid of the feminine from which you were created?

gold does not exist
to complement your futile mind.