I want to tell my future kids about you. I want to tell them about the way I would feel your eyes on me in the middle of your favourite movie and the way it made me shift my weight. I want to tell them that love sometimes means being uncomfortable. Sometimes love means stepping out of your comfort zone. I want to tell them about the times I cut your hair and you never cared when I fucked up the back. Or the times we would say “let’s make dinner together” and you would smile over the hot stove while I sat on the counter and watched. I want to tell my future kids about the things you taught me. I want to tell my kids that their first loves might not be their best, that they won’t know their last love is their last love, that they won’t notice when the person they love is settling for them, that moving on sometimes means moving out and changing their number, that seeing the person you love cry feels like being punched in the throat. I want to tell them about the way you loved me so hard, every time you looked at me it felt like an echo that’s still vibrating through my bones today. I want to mention the way it felt to hold you when you cried in my arms. You shook so hard I glanced over your shoulder, out the window, to see if the trees had noticed the earthquake rocking your entire body but they were still as death. I remember wiping your nose and you apologizing, saying you felt bad that I had seen you “ugly cry” and, although your face was red and your eyes were swollen and your jaw was quivering so hard your teeth kept knocking together and you couldn’t look at me, you were the most beautiful thing I had seen in my entire life, because you were mine and mine alone and you being upset just meant I had another reason to tell you I loved you and that everything would be okay because we had each other and having each other meant having everything in the world. I want to tell my future kids about that. I want them to know that love can be pure if they let it. I want to tell my children about you, and then smile and say, “Go wash your hands for dinner. She’ll be home any minute.”


When you see her arms
they will have rows
upon rows of scratches
still bleeding sentences
even after the excuses run dry

these are her church pews
in a cathedral of her own body
begging you to sit down
and listen to her stories

They will be uniform
in a way that your mind
will not comprehend
these are places of worship
placed on a body more beautiful
than any metaphor you could write

and you will not ask her why
with anger in your voice
the outrage in your tone
lighting candles of shame
in the cathedrals of her mind

you will ask her why
with the soft caresses
of your fingertips over scar tissue
you will allow her answer
to be a silent prayer to her own body

you will also allow her sentences
to form confessions
behind the confessional screen
of a pitch-black room
this will also be a prayer
but it will be a ceremony
she is allowing you to take place in
do not shake her faith in you
by bringing the demons in your tongue
to bed with the misguided awe
of her angels sitting out there
on the church pews made of scars

Do not be afraid for her
simply sit down attend her church services
and do not worry for her

for her demons fled the night
she placed the church pews in

—  For a friend — The Whiskey Writer

                             -ANGELS WITH NO WINGS 

lord ,please tell me ,explain me why

why the sky is not on my feet

lord ,please give me a reason

why my mind is broken and lost …

lord ,please let me go ,let me go 

away from this planet humans call home …

i thought i loved, i thought i was loved , i thought for some moments i was

even adored ,but now please let me go away , where is the heart that i

supposedly possessed 


cause my poor mind is gone and i don’t know anymore where to find myself in the darkness of my home 

Escape artists

When I met her, she was on the run.
Some love had swept into her town like a wildfire,
and her heart sounded the evacuation.
I was a safe place to be—
and she basked in my shade
until she forgot that fire
and the man who started it.

But then I felt the burn.
She was there in my mind all the time,
under this little spot on my skull.
It was a fine point but white hot,
like a cigarette burn.
Miss Cigarette had sparked a blaze.

But I didn’t run.
We were both escape artists,
but she was a master of the art of escaping,
and I was a master of escaping through art.
I hid my fire for her
by burning paper and guitars and midnight oil.
While she slept, I’d watch her—
I’d light an inferno hot enough to melt the world.
When she woke, there I was—
and she was none the wiser.
Each day with her caused a forest to grow inside of me,
a deep, rich tangle of branches and vines
just waiting to be burned at night.

One dawn, she caught me.
Her eyes opened as I sketched her sleeping body,
and she felt my heat,
my terrible warmth.
And I began to weep.
I begged her not to escape.
I promised I wouldn’t mess up again;
I promised that I could contain my blaze.

Maybe it was because that night’s embers were dying—
maybe it was because she didn’t see me at my brightest—
but she wasn’t scared.
She asked to see my work, one piece at a time,
and soon her weeping harmonized with mine.
And then she asked if I could teach her
how to be an escape artist.

— For undo-you, from Kavalier Calm

I contemplate my life
But continue to write;
It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore and I’m trying to figure out why.
I have every reason to be happy
But still, I’m sad.
I push everyone away
And suck back into my old ways.
Cold and alone but I like it like that,
But I don’t know if it’s healthy anymore.
Hello graduating class of year I’ll be afraid to admit ten years from now
It’s been four years since we’ve first met
And thus far I’ve talked to probably not even half of you
Seriously for the life of me I couldn’t even name 20 people outside of my friend circle

Honestly I think that’s really sad
Most of you would’ve never given me the time of day
Unless I knew the answers to last nights homework

In class none of you ever looked at me unless there was that fateful day
Where one of your friends was absent
And you got stuck with me as your lab partner

What’s even worse is all that you know about me
Are the words you hear about me in the hall
When you looked at me
You saw a face that you would never remember outside of the classroom

A face that you probably never bothered thinking about or talking about unless there was some stupid rumor going around about me

I’m not even upset that I’m just a face to most of you
I’m upset because honestly
As students, correction
As people
We could’ve done so much better

We could’ve done better than the constant racial slurs everyone found so funny
We could’ve done better than the dress code that should really be titled “boys will be boys”
We could’ve done so much better than “That’s so gay”
We could’ve done so much better than the class president who actually isn’t a “really nice kid”
We could’ve done so much better than the constant bullying that apparently does not exist in our school
We could’ve done so much better than the opinions that you are entitled to, but not given the right to be an asshole about

So class of year I’ll be afraid to admit ten years from now
Remember this before you enter the real world
We could’ve done better
We passed as students
But we failed as people
—  An average high school student
Never cut the red wire. Every time you sneeze, your heart skips a beat and that terrifies me.

I’ve been thinking very hard about the faces that my favorite poets keep in an electricity safe box hidden between the blue and red wires somewhere under their skin.
Those are the faces written on over and over again
with typewriters and blue ink.
I have never been much of an artist, but if I could, I would have drawn a map on the back of your neck
and it would tell the story of how we did not meet, but should have.
I wonder how heavy ink is. I would like to know if it pulls at precious skin cells until eyes sag and the corners of mouths are pulled past the force of gravety.
Sometimes you can look at someone — their crumpled-paper hair and penciled words thst refuse to be erased from their skin —
And say
That’s the one who broke a poet’s heart. That’s the one who made the world cry.