always in the quiet hours (22 sept 2014)

at night i ask
when will i relearn to love myself
in the quiet hours

Light Pollution

“the light reveals all

sins,” she always said. but the

dark shows me the stars.

Passions

i can't keep twisting
my ankles to dance or
breaking my heart to write

Public Transit

Laughing at a stranger's jokes
is equal parts relief
and mania.

Dear Beloved

An open letter to everyone I’ve ever convinced myself I loved.

I.

I am still sorry.

I fear that you were just the

first in a long line

of men I will be

all too willing to bury

my loneliness in.

II.

 Now that I’ve figured

that you wronged me, I am not

ready to forgive.

III.

I loved you more than

you knew, but you were still right:

it was not enough.

IV.

I have learned what the

infinite tastes like but

I still haven’t learned

that people can’t be

 fixed because they aren’t broken,

or that I deserve

better.

psychosomatic

-->

i’ve grown accustomed

to the pain. in your absence

everything else aches.

Going With The Tides

Going With The Tides

A Haiku Pair

  

 Loneliness sometimes

lingers like cold in your bones

and damp in your soul,

even when the tides

that washed it up have long since

moved to other shores.

The Inaccuracies of Poetry

The Inaccuracies of Poetry

(a Haiku)

It wasn’t the whole

truth, but half-lies can be more

honest anyway.

On the Distribution of One's Heart

On the Distribution of One's Heart

(A Haiku Quintet)

I had given my

heart to someone who didn’t

know how to hold it.

Instead, they cradled

it like an adolescent

with a stranger’s child:

awkward and uneasy,

with a fear of falling

head first and snapping.

I gave my heart to

someone who didn’t quite want

it and was surprised

when they gave it back.

They said to keep it safe, but

their fingers left bruises.

Drowning

Drowning
(A Haiku Pair)

I am drowning. You

have oversaturated

me, but I need it.

You overwhelm me.

I gasp for air but choking

never felt so good.

For The Moth That Lived and Died In My Bathroom

And his wings, folded

shut in death, concealed that he

had been beautiful

Knock Knock Jokes, or Writer's Block Haiku

Knock Knock Jokes

(Writer's Block Haiku)

knock knock- who's there? what

do you call a writer who

never writes? a joke.

Infatuation: A Haiku

Watching from afar,
i wonder what it's like to
be wrapped in your arms.