I wanted to put these somewhere because I actually like them.


a love letter to future heartbreak

I will spin you and cross your evil wishes.
Spinning your being across the spindles and throughout caverns that collide.
Both you and I hanging by the thin needles crafted by corrective lenses.
The intermingle of flies kept in traps and the rats
that gnaw their way through the thick walls of the beating verse. 4:4, 3:4, 2:2, 7, 8.
Kicking the heart of the smile and the look in her eye.
Kicking the teeth in of the too close
            the too quiet
            the too close

            the too obvious
            the too lovesick
sick to our thin core.

Drowning and whirling in the pits of the thoughts of the saddened the damned and despondent.

writhing,          rather curling,              crawling          weakening

Hands of a clock never to strike 12 –
Audibly waiting for the sound
And the hand

And the vacant cry of a cracking chest, heart


No Today, No Yesterday                                                                                          

Hands touched by the will of something I could be proud of.
His hands drenched in the malice of a lonely week.

My arms never wrapped around him the way he had intended.
His arms too strong around a weakened body,
mind, and eventually

My trembling ankles against the soft fabric of cotton and polyester with hips driven in,
down, and       over the sound of denial.
Trembling thoughts in the head of a boy unable
 to hold something real
between his palms and fingers’

I could not look, see the monster between hushed knees.
He could not stop his prying, delicate eyes.

Bile in an unwelcome scream as the anger rose
out of a vessel no longer mine.
Because the trying and attempts to cover
breasts, bare
and the internal lies.
He had waited for this. He had wanted this
out of instinct for those who challenged him.
Ruined before he had a chance to be in sync with the other boys.

My voice running through the minutes that lead to this—coming up dry, without strength and air.
His voice, playing a gruff and insignificant mutter, gaining length, volume, care in only seconds.



It had been a no. A no then and a no now and the no that knew no threat.
The no that uncharacteristically appeared to be a yes.
The yes I couldn’t mutter or scream if I wanted to.
The no that swam around my head,
the opaque room. Both flooded by a no that meant no.


Revelation 21:4

Mothers crying for the youngest and palest.
They wait on the day until there is no more wait, no ticking bomb, no countdown
cursing the wind that brings her hope when wishing for a happy ending.
Minute minutes buried by the daze
that life will prevail and that he might come back
home, to the life he couldn’t bear decease.

Brothers standing guard with lace like fingertips holding handles
cold, frozen, brass.
Lower to poisoned sacred grounds where the sickly scene of worms and roots swallow
life as it proceeds further to the depths of sweet soil,
absorbing feet.

The man he wouldn’t want there—standing beside the man he never knew was there.
Kind words intermingled with the bruises and hardened palms, never
too young to know the difference.
The kind of love he thought he had needed. Rough and difficult and screaming.
Five men holding the strength of one woman in their hands.

She will play songs and write unspoken words.
I will be there always with the tears dripping one       by        one,
hiding in the thoughts of a broken girl with a singed heart and tattered soul.
She will wash away the stains on cheeks, wishing to breathe.
Wanting one breath. One embrace. One more day without him, too unwilling to face.

The ones before and the ones after threatening him, nagging at her.
When days seemed many
thoughts unable to find their rightful spot as she sets her world spinning.
Spins eventually end but his placement of hands on a body
made out of unspeakable nights, not enough sunlight
will keep things in the sweetest rotation.

He will stay in the place that I left him. Caverns turning to cities.
I will soundlessly hold the hand of the lost boy who finally knew what there was to lose.
Twisted metal and broken branches keeping us intertwined,
crafting the cocoon to hide the eyes that looked up from the mess of hair and ink-stained skin.

The silenced minds pick up on one thing while making their way to the place of vacant fields and manicured saplings.
Reluctant to believe the heavy lumps in throats as he screams, writhing, trapped.
Emptiness refusing to subside to the pit of their bellies as he feels hearts drop.
Marble stones, the last rose thrown and the lowering of his final throne.
Dark skies close in as the last tears are shed and the willows sing a mocking song.

His voice exists with me as he tries to reconcile and says goodbye
one last, final time. Silent to those with the inability to find reason.

Stretching the fabric of the dark sleeves over sweaty palms awakens a soul where one once lay in a chest now merely a cage.
Followed by shadows – dark and right and quiet,
I stretch up to the almighty Creator himself before
followed down to fire, smoke.

It is on the face of his mother, her stature strong, delicately trying to be what others cannot.
Knowing the look on the young boys’ faces—defeat, sorrow, incomprehensible domain.
He sees it on the face of the girl he loved, the face of his once presumed forever.
He can see the ounce of life that dies within each and every one. In front of him, immortalized.
And I, picking up a tune, placing a guiding hand to a weak shoulder, whistling through dull teeth:

He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain,

for the old order of things has passed away.