Some people are going to treat you like a snow globe
and keep you on a shelf
and take you down only to shake you up
and watch what falls.
So break your glass
and let yourself pour out
and choose not to be so fragile.
Tip over the aquarium they keep you in
and seep into the ground
and grow flowers.
Evaporate into the clouds—
you’ll see more than a plastic house
where the snow is just paint
and the white-coated trees don’t grow or breathe—
let yourself fall in drops
and know you’ll be lifted up again.
he may say that he loves you
but does he know to be fragile
with your glass bones
and porcelain skin
like i do?
does he know about your
and to trust the look in your eyes
more than the syllables from your lips
anyone can proclaim their love
just because they may be infatuated
by your beauty
but no one can understand the pattern
at which you think
and love you
like i can
Words flow from the fingers
of people who refuse
to believe the world
We accept the love we think
we deserve, but only
because we know
nothing else except
false dreams and harsh
But I refuse to believe that
only the beautiful
people fall in love;
I refuse to believe that
a model is worth
more love than a poet
who will remember the
So I will wait for the
day that my other half has
finally found me, and
I will continue to write,
hoping that they
know who I am.
the lonely heart
You know how hard it is to find an empty bar on a Saturday night? I do. Too many reasons to drink. The end of the work week, or having to start on a Sunday. Not getting laid, or getting laid off. Girls, girls, girls, and the Motley Crue song of the same name that makes strippers out of sorority sisters. And then, of course, the worm in your gut called alcoholism, that turns your stomach into Jose Cuervo’s private stock. You don’t find an empty bar on a Saturday night. No. Like the black-dressed, bare-shouldered mess of running mascara, it finds you.
The Lonely Heart is a little bar down on Dundas Street that gets its name from its location, wedged like an ingrown hair between an antique book store and a flower shop, that should attract worn elbows to sticky table tops, as drones flock to pollen. The Lonely Heart, however, a dying breed, daring to live up to its name, is full only of its emptiness. I tug at the door and feel it resist me. Even with my vision narrow as a tourniquet, I can make out the letters. Pull, it says, but nothing gives. I push instead, and find myself inside. I’ve always had this talent for understanding jokes, so with one mirthless syllable of laughter that expands into the lack of clientele, I express my genuine approval. Even the bartender is absent, which makes it that much easier to make myself at home.
The dim orange lighting overhead buzzes at the same frequency as my brain, low and full of implication, without anyone to receive it. The bottles lining the wall make me feel like a game show contestant. For a moment, I wonder if the place is even open, but immediately realize that I don’t care. Then, from out of the corner of my eye that’s shrunken to a slit, I catch the pale fire of her bare wrist, flickering like treasure from behind a mahogany pillar the colour of dried blood.
I consider calling to her, but the words are as children playing hide and seek, or the liquor sloshing around inside of me, refusing to come out. Instead, I take a seat alone at the counter. You know how hard it is to find an empty bar on a Saturday night? I hold my head in my hands to give my sore neck a rest.
“Can I get you anything?” a voice asks me, soft and sensuous as the low tide. I look to my left without lifting my head, to where the woman from earlier would have been seated if I could see through wood. “Hey?” The voice tugs at me, like a lighthouse.
“Yeah,” I say, but only after meeting her eyes. There’s a quality of despair there, so well-hidden that I can’t miss it, so familiar that it connects me to her as a tree to its branches, and so profound that we must remain separate as its leaves.
One Size Fits Most
We stood shielded by trumpet vines
with orange blossoms
facing the sunset behind the pine trees
of my childhood home—
and no scenery could be more romantic.
But you pull me in
and I pull away
and think of him
and realize I only know my love
by your love.
And he knows his lack of love
by my love.
So I draw on yours for now
and he draws on mine
and we are a chain of those
A vine of flowers and pulled petals:
he loves me,
he loves me not.
We are not shoes with a perfect match—
we are not made in pairs
We are not looking for our other halves.
We wear each other like bracelets—
one size fits most
and carry each other in the links;
a little tighter doesn’t always cut circulation,
a little looser doesn’t always slip off.
Like the Sun Loves the Earth
I used to be okay with loving like the moon
loves the earth
238,900 miles away
around and around.
And then I felt the thousands of telescopes on me
and I thought I needed to be held all the time,
but when I crashed into someone’s arms
I’ve always left craters and rubble.
I never knew my own size—my own weight.
I never knew the impact I left.
I was a meteor but I wasn’t beautiful—
I carried a tail of sparks and destruction
like tin cans on strings hung from my back bumper
without ever looking back
and I always left the wedding leaving him standing alone.
All the stargazers left me narcissistic
and I thought I made my own light—
but I was just rock borrowing sunlight.
Now I want to love like the sun loves the earth
and lend my warmth and light and ask for nothing back again.
I’m okay with feeling the fireflies flitter inside my belly
knowing you feel nothing at all.
I want to feel the heat in my cheeks
even if yours are cool.
I don’t want to revolve around you though.
I can bear this one-sided love of a planet
but I’ll stand still
—no more chasing.
Maybe to shine like the sun you need to be humbled—
and rejected by earth.
All the eyes can admire the moon
that borrows the silent shimmer of the sun—
but no eyes turn to stare down the actual star
—direct sunlight scars.
you told me you were an artist
letting me assume you painted
beautiful pictures that let people
see wonder in the world.
but you never told me
you drew monsters
you acted as though my brain
was a pure, unused white canvas
and scrawled beautifully warped
ideas of people and things and places
turning thoughts into demons
that possessed my entire mind.
you sketched your insecurities
into my genetic identity
so we were both stuck in this
hellish paradise you call home.