This is a Poem

Today she told me that most people are not poets, just good note-takersWell, here is a note for you: There was an edge to the way we loved each other,the sharp l dug into my ribs. But nowyou are the smooth curve of f in forgiveness.You are the plump belly in the g of goodbye. You’re

oyster or trying to running away while standing back to back in a room full of mirrors

he seeps in like a migraine. the fingernails of his memory digging into my temples. to the mirror, skin vanilla-white, i say his name and choke on the ashes. his existence is a splinter i can’t get out so i’ve learnt to grow around.      this crack is raw; no preservatives two people that

The Broken Woman Ifestus

  Remember that you were born in the sky: you don’t have veins, you have constellations; you don’t have blood, you have moonshine; you don’t have lungs, you have clouds; you don’t have a brain, you have a nebula; you don’t have a heart, you have an aurora. Study The Universe. Get a Spinster of

The Art of Crying on Street Corners

  I was an anonymous atom until the summer he popped me like a balloon. I walked around with a bomb in my chest; fell asleep every night to the tick-tock of mini-promises. I fell like a piano from a rooftop party, while he sang for every hooker/waitress there. But I wanted to crawl under

What is poetry?

CONFESSION/ you move me, muses when I’m lost in the museum of my mind I don’t mind the scrawny sleep after midnight mania manic mad sick or high enlightened inspired, I don’t know I do know that I speak three and a half languages English Greek French Soul you are that language and no I

Two-hundred and Fifty-eight: Ghost, Revisited

Lollipop nails stalling answers, stopping zigzag glances. Whispers falling like joking snowflakes, and too much wine swells as imaginations go sailing back to poems she used to write about you. Goldens chores save grace. Lacing nude words with a little bit of crazy, she is always worried that the chemicals are just lazy. And rolling,

Two-hundred and Forty-nine: pig promises

he wants me to use his pig promises to write a poem about him, but today, inside, i am a relentless monochromatic kaleidoscope, and all i can hope for is to get through it without too much gin. my eyes feel thin today. weak and easy to pop. the rain has stopped and i’ve picked

Two-hundred and Forty-six: Let’s Undo What They Did To Us

My daddy taught me not to think and love. When I stopped being a child, I started drinking. I waited for trains every night, throwing my weight (what weight?) on the track marks on my arms. Constructive assholes sheep-whistled at my wolf-heart. They taught me everything else: Do not indicate when turning left. It’s not like

Two-hundred and Thirty-two: One Stupid Fucking Poem

He was right, you know. He had the answers when you didn’t even want to ask the questions. This makes me smile like bitter chocolate. This person that you can’t stand made me sit down and listen. He knows me better than you ever will; he can turn my pages easily because I’m still looking at you.

Eighty-five: Coming in Silence

Silence does not become me. I soak up voices and songs and draw them in my dreams. I paint my nails with words. I make poetry out of smiles, play teeth like piano keys. Silence does not become me and it doesn’t make me come to you.