Sorry for the Inconvenience

People turn away from me.

This girl is an investment.

I know I’m heavy.

I know I take time.

If you wanted an apology

for taking up space,

here it is.

Sorry for loving you

when you didn’t want me.

Nobody wants the poet’s love -

no one but everyone, I understand.

You just want something written

about you, I get it.

Here it is.

Sorry it took

so long.


I think the sky might love me.

Sometimes it burns itself

alive just to catch my attention.

Sometimes I go outside

and catch it looking at me.

Those big blue eyes going on and on,

I think we might be trapped

inside one person,

living in a black pupil,

everything so big and beautiful

and far away,

us just looking out.

Whoever it is, I hope they love us.

I hope they know we’re here.

The Perpetual Fight

Clench my fists – they feel

like stones at the ends of my arms.

This is the avalanche, simultaneously

swallowing and getting eaten alive,

this is the perpetual fight.

March into every battle,

I want to save the world from itself.

I want to free the broken, gently

tear their fingers away from their

throats, it’s okay,

this is the perpetual fight.

I want to heal every wrecked

pair of hands and teach them

how to read again, touch

piano keys again,

this is the perpetual fight.

I want to dismantle every

system that sits its fat ass

on top of children and teachers,

they’re suffocating,

that, too, is the perpetual fight.

Save them, save all of them.

I’m starting to think even

this poem is a perpetual fight,

and we’re losing on both ends.

Certain Kind of Poison

You have been sitting on my couch

acting like a cigarette, tell me -

now someone’s smoked you,

how does it feel to be lit

then thrown in the ash bowl?

You were never anything

but something for her to

wipe her lips on, and

to catch her breath

when it went wandering.

You sit in her lungs,

even now, when she’s

determined never to

touch you again.

There is such a thing

as loving too well.

To He Who Loves the Writer

When she’s got the moon in her eyes,

don’t leave her. Take her hand and

rub the cold out of it.

When the stars arrive -

their suitcases in hand -

meet them at the door, her skin,

and tell them she can’t

take them in today, sorry.

Space can be so dark, so lonely.

Tighten the one between you and her

until it breaks, snap its neck.

She’s never needed anything

but someone to be there

when everything’s crushing,

and everything’s heavy,

and she’s trying to hold it all

until her arms give out.

She’ll hold the world up for you.

Don’t let her.

Monday Mornings Are A Lie

It’s hard to tell what’s real,

walking through these halls.

At least not me.

Not for a long time now.

There is so much grey.

They try to dispel it with the blue,

the school blue, the “true school blue,”

and it doesn’t work.

There is grey.

The grey seems real.

I also think that

in the bathroom stalls

the words “fuck you” are real,

and the phone numbers.

Call me.

For real?

I am somewhere, else.

Ghosts and ghosts and ghosts.

I am hovering over a girl

with a curtain of brown hair

and she’s shuffling,

books in her arms.

She knows I’m here.

She might be me.

She might be no one

at all.

The Touch

I live for the touch. Skin to human skin,

finger to book spine, palm to rain-kissed grass.

I live for the unlikelihood that two beings will shift

out of alignment and offer themselves

to each other. You can touch me,

you can touch, I will let you.

You can go walking away with traces

of me on your fingertips, it’s okay.

There is something of the harp about it.

There is something of the trees.

Something spoken and then quickly forgotten.

I am quite in love with it.

Rest Assured

There will be moments

there are no such things as moments

and it is in these lost folds of time

that you must tuck yourself in

like a child into bed,

ready to greet both dreams

and nightmares,

because they are both

coming for you, and

you might as well sleep

until they do.


I am reading a book,

I think;

it’s hard to tell,

because there’s no light

here to read by.

Is everything

like this,

I fear,

I hope?

Today marks the first day of my second round of NaPoWriMo – in which I will write a poem every day of April. Comment if you’re joining me!