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I know that I’m not alone;

she wrote

about it first;

I will never be alone;

I have her

words to guide me

home

— & other affirmations

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You set him up to fail,

and condemn him

when he does.

How cruel,

to ensure

the fulfillment

of your own

prophetic expectations.

— Crucified in the Womb

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I am human, I insist. I am good.

Ah, the voice sagely replies, therein lies the problem, for you cannot be both.

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The harder I try

to force myself to bleed

red,

the darker it blooms.

— black is the new red

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“What makes a poem a poem, finally, is that it is unparaphrasable. There is no other way to say exactly this; it exists only in its own body of language, only in these words. I may try to explain it or represent it in other terms, but then some element of its life will always be missing. It’s the same with painting. All I can say of still life must finally fall short; I may inventory, weigh, suggest, but I cannot circumscribe; some element of mystery will always be left out. What is missing is, precisely, its poetry.”

— Mark Doty, from Still Life With Oysters and Lemon

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i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point

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& words are all that i have

but it isn’t enough

so i photograph

but it isn’t enough

so i film

but it isn’t enough

so i paint

but it isn’t enough

so i sculpt

but it isn’t enough

so i dance

but it isn’t enough

so i sing

but it isn’t enough

so i perform

but it isn’t enough

& words are all that i have

— to describe you

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It took five poems

seven years

six holidays (one made up)

four playlists

two matching necklaces

nine empty chocolate wrappers

eight characters (plus an emoji)

and a stupid song

to finally learn what I have known all along:

With you is where I belong

— the countdown to three (words)

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Lonely

is a choice

other people make

for you

A prescribed

absence

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A thought on love:

I want someone to hold my hand

even when it is sweaty,

gross,

inconvenient. I want someone

to never let go.

(No one’s done that before.)

Love is worth the sweaty palms.