How can I say He?
God is a woman like me-
A woman made into a jug
To hold the burdens of the earth,
The roasting hearth, the fertile dirt in the garden,
The ever-polite pardon-
God is a glass case of emergency,
What he gives, he takes,
And breaks with hands unparalleled to
The Divine; don’t tell me
My mouth exists only to catch he,
He, a petty thing,
I don’t glow in the night to
Burn when he sets fire to my bed,
I don’t grow in the rain to
Shrivel when he neglects my red,
Red tulips, and like faith, a thankless thing,
God is a woman,
A cavern, a tomb,
God is the earth’s suffering in bloom.
—  The Suit of Cups
Ingrained Images

Chilling air rushes past
These are my memories
And they’re fleeting so fast
These feelings dull
But the sting seems to last

This huge wave
Leaves an absence in its wake
A vacuum
As if such intensity was here
But is gone

What does it mean
When the feelings go numb
But your thoughts do not change?

I can’t get this off my mind.
I can’t get her off my mind.
This past is eating me alive.

I become so enveloped in stories, people and scenes that I feel it physically. My heart aches for lovers who are apart. I feel anxious when I imagine you’re feeling cross toward me. And most of all, when you inspire me, it is an obsession.
—  Hushed-words

lets go to the land of flowers
and not be afraid of the bushes
lets be friends with roses and dandelions
and not pluck any of them
let the weed stay there too
as it is also full of life somehow
lets water some other plants too
so that they touch new heights
lets pour all our secrets out to them
because plants can be best of best friends
they are meant to be loved
lets gather around them
like we are white doves.


you are
the person that makes me the happiest
but makes me hurt
the person that makes me want to live
but makes me frustrated
the only person I want to talk to
but makes me sad
the person that makes everything okay
but makes me cry
the person I truly want to be with
but can’t
you are the person who fills me
with beautiful things
that I can see but not touch
and god how I want to grab them
how I want to hold them
but they do not belong to me
but you are the only person
with whom I want to be
and I cannot give up
on such a wild dream

I let another man
touch me,
the other night.

Thankfully, as drunk as I
had been, - I managed to
keep my
clothes on, -

which may not
sound like
much, -

but for me
it was a lot.

I guess that I really have
grown up since my
reckless and mischievous
college days.

I have not had
sex in months and
even though I am
starved for it, -
(and by God I am)

I am waiting for, -
I am waiting for it to mean something again.

I hate how much
power over my
emotions this
boy has.

My insides want to
scream every time I
think of it.

But, - it’s just that, -
if he were to leave,
I’m not sure that I
would remember to breathe.

Will he tell me first?
Or will it be sudden, -
will I again have to
feel that iced over
punch in the gut feeling
in front of others, -

will I again have to
smile, -
my heart crumbling all the while.

You know what?

Fuck statements like that.
I must snap myself, -
I will snap myself out of it.

I will go on dates until I forget it.

I still care
about what goes on in your life.


Stupid, stupid, stupid,
I know.

I care, -
but I could never
want that back.

You were poison to me, -
I mean, Jesus Christ, -
look at all that would have
been kept from me, -

all of this living,
all of this being, -

back then I swear that I was nothing but a
skeleton breathing.

Home is where you allow your heart to settle, to relax, to be. Be that a place, or a time or even another person. So, I guess that I will work on that. I will work on giving my heart comfort in what is present, here and now, - in front of me instead of in back of me. If I can perfect that, -

well, - I guess that even I can, -

I can find a home again.

It’s funny to think about, isn’t it? -
That maybe my heart won’t feel so alone then.

i am not dying without you. i thought i’d be on the ground, my body discovered by my best friend. her screams echoing through our apartment. but no. i slept okay last night. sure, i cried in my 10am class today, but who wouldn’t? at least i went to class. at least i got out of bed. at least i’m breathing.

people go, it happens every day. some people just aren’t strong enough to handle me. you definitely weren’t. you wanted someone soft and easy to hold. i am sharp and my eyes dance away from hands that try to reach out and touch me. someone someday will not mind being scratched by my thorns.

—  v.s.
alone vs loneliness

there’s a difference
between being
and being

being alone
is nice.

it’s nice to
read alone
in the library.
it feels nice to
walk home
while listening to music
by yourself.
it’s a good feeling
to be home alone
on a saturday night,
just watching movies and such.

when you’re alone,
you can finally think clearly
and free.


is when
you feel as if no
one is there for you.

you aren’t
emotionally close
to anyone.

it’s when
it feels as if
all of the
bad thoughts are
but you have absolutely
no one to confide in.

it’s as if you’re in a
room full of a hundred people,
but it’s as if you’re the only one.

loneliness suffocates
you until you can’t breath.
and when you try
to scream into the
emotional void,
no one will
hear you.

it’s nice to be alone,
but it’s the worse thing

That’s the thing about us romantics,” she said. “We’re far too enamored of self-sacrifice. We’ll always step aside for the better story, let someone else be happy even if it’s at our expense. We don’t mind bowing out because our hearts bleed better than they beat anyway. We figure, if anyone should be the one left alone while he falls for someone else, it should be us. Because unlike everyone else, romantics never really turn bitter when we think about love. As long as love wins, our losses seem pretty insignificant. And if I don’t get to be happy with you, at least I have other stories to lose myself in.
—  For Romantics (And Writers)

You picked her.

The girl with the pink hair
and confident smile,
that made you
run across the room
at the sound of her voice.
The girl sitting on your desk
who insisted
on a scale of 1-10, she was an 11.
The girl that made your hand shake
when you were adding
her number in your phone.
That girl was me.
And you picked her
to be your second choice.

And that made me think to myself:
“Is this what a sapphire feels like
when it’s next to a diamond?
Do rubies and emeralds
leave room for those
perfect little gems?
Do they know the pain
of being passed on
for more beautiful jewels?“

The voice of my mother
washes over me,
reminding me:
Her daughter was to be
a hard woman,
a strong woman,
a woman that can make
a man’s hand shake
just by being in her presence.
She was not to be
a shiny token on his arm.
She was the reason
he bowed at her feet.
She was not a jewel
that can be bought.

Your first choice may be
the stunning diamond
at the center of your home,
but I’m the wrought iron fence
you were too scared to pass through.
She may have
cut, colour and clarity,
but I have
character, charisma, captivation.
She may be the air that you breathe,
But I would have been
the reason you could breathe
after a wave of emotion suffocates you
and you would hate the air
because you’d wish
the water of my love
filled your lungs.

I was not pressed to perfection
I was forged
with hard work and determination
and iron fences were made for intimidation.
But don’t think
the twisted barrier that I am
marks me for damnation,
just because this damn nation
fears to unlock gate latches.

But I don’t want your fear,
or manipulation.
I want you to fall in love with her.
I want you to
run across the room
when you hear her voice.
Your hand to shake
when you hold her close.
Your eyes to shine bright
like the diamond she is.

And I want you to
forget that pink hair
you found on your desk,
forget that I’m an 11,
forget that I’m made of iron,
forget me.

Because one day,
will remind you of
that glorious rusted fence
you couldn’t pass through.
And all those memories
will hit you
like a tsunami
and you will think:
“I wish I drowned in her.”

My roommate pets my cheek until I wake up.
She has skin as white as shaved ice
and unplucked eyebrows that furrow as she whispers:
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
It’s seven a.m.  I haven’t lost anything except sleep.
She says, “The way they just killed him at a traffic stop.
It isn’t right, it isn’t right.
I’m sorry.
If you need anything, please let me know.
It’s heartbreaking.”
Her eyes, which have been scanning my room,
land on mine as she cracks the word heartbreaking, 
as if to emphasize
I wonder if she followed the shootings
before she started living with a black girl.
I wonder if she looked up the article herself
or saw a headline in a Facebook post.
I wonder if she marched.
I wonder if, like me,
her only form of activism is rescue dogs.
Oh honey, I wanted to say.  I’ve stopped counting my dead.
I’ve woken up with a pit in my stomach so many days
that the pit is my stomach.
If she asks me – and I know that she will ask me,
earnestly, with wide eyes that soak up every word
and shoulders hunched forward in forced sympathy –
how it feels to live with a target on my back
in America,
I won’t know what to say.
I could give her books.
But no, she needs to hear it from me,
a black person with hair she can touch and a heartbeat she can feel:
She can prove I am human.
I am today’s porcelain doll picked from her careful collection
of black friends,
asked to educate.
But it is seven a.m.,
and another black man is dead,
and I have not figured out whether this new death has
cracked through my numbness.
I have not decided whether to sit vigil or light a funeral pyre.
And there she is, with her lower lip poked out,
and she wants to know what she can do.
I have run out of things to tell her.
When I pull the blankets over my head and fill my eyes with darkness,
she thinks it’s because I am in mourning.
—  Morning, Again.
Note to Self

Do not become
your mother.
Not because you
do not love her,
you do,
that is one fact that
late-night Google searches
cannot tell you.
But love is not equivalent
to imitation.
You are not your mother.
You were born for a
different kind
of life.

Vote for the
Legalise Marijuana party.
If they ask why,
tell them.
If they don’t ask,
don’t tell.

Kiss boys.
Lots of them.
Girls, too.
When you find someone
good enough,
kiss them in your sleep.
You’ll know them
when you find them.
Their lips will taste like

or not.
Fuck the soprano line.

Do drugs,
but not the bad ones.
Educate yourself enough
to know what the bad ones

Have sex.
Love it.
Or hate it.
Depends on the situation.
Do not be afraid
to let people see you.

Shave your pubes.
If you can’t be bothered,
don’t shave your pubes.
It’s as simple as that.

Iron your pants.
Do not iron your pants.
your own

Make love.
Make cookies.
Make friends.
Make happiness.
Do not let other people
tell you the recipe.
Your heart knows
the recipe.
Listen to it.

Hate Shakespeare,
even though everyone
will disagree with you.
Express your opinions.
Listen to other people’s opinions.
Disagree politely,
unless you
In that case, fight them.

Love your friends.
Even when you want to
hate them.
Help your friends.
Even when they do not want
your help.


Quit smoking cigarettes.
Don’t quit smoking weed,
but acknowledge the fact that
you are psychologically
addicted to it.

Smoke weed,
and then masturbate.
(Trust me,
it will improve the experience).

Live loudly.
Live without fear.
Live like a poet.
Fall in love.
Fall in love with the moon.
And the trees.
And the grass.
Fall in love with
the world in general.
Allow yourself the opportunity
to hope.
Or to cry.
Do both,
Read three books at once.
Lose track of all the poems you
haven’t written yet.
Get back on track.
Write them.
Even the bad ones.
Be the bad one.
Break the law.
Tell stories.
Make stories.
Stitch together
a patchwork quilt
of stories.
Tuck yourself in at night.
Do not forget
to say
thank you.