everything before this moment
every sin you think you’ve committed
every heinous act you believe you’re guilty of
every spike of shame your stomach dropped for,
smashed every which way white wine bottle style for,
made your pores bleed profusely with frustrated swears for,
does not matter.
repeat after me, darling:
it does. not. matter.
because in this moment, the truth, present in your form,
sits here, aching light, in my arms.
‘What is your occupation?’ various forms ask me.
I scribble in something monotonous.
‘Receptionist.’ ‘Desk.’ ‘Front Desk.’ ‘Professional People Pleaser,’
and what a waste it seems.
I have to remember it’s a good thing its paperwork,
and paperwork is boring,
and people who ask you questions like ‘what is your occupation’ like boring,
which is good, because they wouldn’t appreciate my real occupation.
My full time occupation is getting lost.
I get lost in my head the most, but also
in routine. In peoples’ eyes. In their rushes of speech. In music.
In the
Can I pull you towards me?
I’m magnetic for you.
When you walk into the building,
I flutter, but safety.
Can I pull you towards me?
I know that you said no,
But I think there may be red strings here
leading you and I to be.
Can I pull you towards me?
Your voice and starshine eyes.
This quiet storm your firm touch stirs,
a steady rhythmic plea.
Can I pull you towards me?
Our fingers often weaved,
Like the standing oaks on trails we walk
winding, grounded, earnestly.
Can I pull you towards me?
You’re up in knots, you know.
The latest card Romantic Future sent,
the postmark stamped, “we’ll see.”
Three hours on transit every work day
two buses, and one train.
The girl slouched on the MAX across from me,
acrylic nails clicking her phone screen,
has pastel blue hair and is wearing
mismatched socks.
Downtown Portland is this way, when the train pulls in.
A messy canvas of endless splashed color -
hot pink highlights. black glitter lipsticks.
neon yellow fishnet and spots of red on white
from where she’s bit her lip in frustration
and its blended with her foundation.
Said work day goes on.
The passing hours here are measured
in packs of unlit cigs.
My first viral poem will be titled:
“I Love My Cat But I Am Very Tired of Her Breaking My Shit,”
part II of “I Love My Family But I Wish They’d Stop Being Assholes to Me.”
Continuous in a series called:
“I Love Myself But Only Through the Eyes of Other People,”
with the omitted chapter, “I Love This World, But I Fear It Will Strangle Me
Until I Die Young and Empty.”
“I like you as a friend, Hannah.”
“I love you a lot.”
“I treasure and adore you.”
“You are the absolute light of my life
and best part of my day...
as a friend.”
as. a. friend.
“You’re so good at taking care of people, Hannah. You’re a wonderful listener!”
“Hannah, you’re an awesome big sister figure!”
“Hannah, you are the greatest, most perfect, bestest friend!”
but never lover.
never girlfriend, never wife, never “significant other,” or “other half.”
nobody wants that from me.
des
in the background of every thought
in the foreground of every action
while laughing, while dreaming, while celebrating
while sobbing, while yearning, while screaming
and wishing I was anyone, anywhere else
despite being swallowed whole by gaping caverns
leading only to dead ends and more questions
despite “satisfaction” and “peace of mind” wholly obscured
by waters slowly dripping from my wet, cold hands
despite never drinking the warmth of you.
only imagining.
only reaching, and wondering, wondering.
Portland, Oregon is a berry pink lipstick shade.
One you love so much, you wear everyday.
You haven’t worn lipstick before, but some kind
of loving thing encourages you to try it.
You run the silkiness over, unsure, and your eyes
flutter closed, concentrating.
You carefully smack when you’re done, taste the rose,
and what you witness, you’re amazed.
You’ve grown up. You’re a woman.
You’re confident. You’re beautiful.
You’ve stretched, catlike, into a sweet, new skin
well liked, warmed with sun, and even equipped to deal
with the occasional breakout.
You know you’re at home in these kissabl
The raincloud and the heavy heart
are used to walking, hand in hand,
into a frigid morning abyss.
The raincloud and the heavy heart
are not fazed by news of approaching spring.
They no longer stop to look for daisies.
The raincloud and the heavy heart
are sick and full, sleepy, lonely,
until held by hands of a love soaked sun.
The raincloud and the heavy heart
then no longer look for daisies
because they’ve become the daisies.
The raincloud and the heavy heart
learn to breathe in peace and bloom love
to thrive in the warmth you bring them.