memory

When the smell of my skin

Fades from your sheets

Will you remember 

How it felt to touch me

When my breath 

Leaves your pillowcase

Will you catch me in your lungs  

Before you fall asleep 

I’m jealous of the waves in your curls

the air on your legs

the light on your dress

Jealous of the breath in your chest

The ground at your feet

The wall you lean on

When you’re drunk and trying to keep steady

When the color of my eyes

Leaves your memory

What will you see

When you think of me

Stonehenge

the sands of your existence
trapped between my toes
caught within the fibers of my clothing
the spaces between teeth

straddled by your memory
in the driver's seat
casting grains across the fabric
with your tongue thrashing inside of me

you moaned,
and pulled against your clothing
wishing for water
as we walked along the coast

from Alkai Beach to Mexico
and somewhere you were lost
a pillar of salt
turning to sand,

the sands of your existence
invisible to my heart's eye, yet
Stonehenge to the passing termite
and once again you give me

the gift of perspective
wet with lust
and humid air
straddled by your memory

close my eyes
dig my fingers into you
feel the sand beneath my fingernails
and bring you to my lips

saturate

saturate my skull
with bittersweet ethanol
a marinade of make-believe
pickled and preserved for posterity

surrounded by tongues
in familiar spaces
where the lines don't blur as quickly
and the expectation

of drunken sandpaper,
working off the old wood
strips the furrowed bark
to the fresh green flesh beneath

and suddenly I am
much easier to stomach
much easier to place
much prettier and comfortable

a grand mediator
supportive and structured
understanding, stimulating
a space to entertain, to

quiet the shame
quiet my name
quiet the truth,
throbbing phantom pains

my ears are trained
to pick up the sound
reverberating off my soggy skull
a silent signal

transcribed in circuit
with flailing limbs and
manic phrasing
the cadence of conviction

a confident con artist
smiling bittersweetly
soaking my skull,
preserved for posterity

barely a difference
cyclical and same
if it doesn't feel different
why do I abstain?

home

I went back home to my mother's house

And remembered how we don't

Open the blinds

Keep the rooms in greyscale

Let the afternoon disappear

And the waning winter sunset

Blurry through the treetops

Passing us by

I went back home to my family's house 

And stayed too long 

With creaky joints and bloodshot eyes

Soaked myself in sleep

Waking in the afternoon 

Reaching for a drink 

Rinse, repeat

I went home

And soaked myself in drink

And remembered, one by one

The people that I used to know

Disappearing slowly

The photographs and memories

Slipping by

dreaming

we were in your old room

the early sunrise creeping through the windows

and dancing across your skin

you woke up and caught me staring

then smiled, kissed my forehead

and held me close

we kissed and wrestled in bed, laughing

then got up and made breakfast and coffee.

*words by Alexandra, edited and stolen by me

week

I still say 'we'
like I belong to anything
This ink still bleeds
through the page

I still say 'you'
like you belong to anyone
And I don't know
when that's gonna change

So I'm here for the night
'cause I sure as hell can't drive

I'm still sitting here
in our place at the bar
Trying to pretend
this isn't fading

I'm still surprised
by the look in your eyes
When you find out
I'm drinking
again

I'm here for the week
if you want to see me
Just a cup of coffee
and I'm on my way

severed cells

Statements of identity

Assertions of consciousness

An ego

A separation between myself

And you

A recognition of our sameness

Our shared experience

Split between skin
Severed cells

fuzzy comfort

"hold onto the memories; they will hold onto you."

I am gripping the memories like a toddler clutching a baby chick, 
unknowingly choking the life out of it, 
squeezing even after the struggle stops, 
unaware of the heat leaving its body.

I am steeped in nostalgia, 
slowly leaking nutrients into the air around me. 
I am strung out on sleeplessness, 
looking for a fix of anything familiar.

I am a raw fucking nerve. 
I just want some fuzzy comfort, 
even if it's already gone cold.

charge

Distracted by that which

Is not a distraction

Distracted by that which

Is the current

The flow beneath my skin

The charge between the empty space

That makes up who I am

Distracted from the distraction

By a distraction

Finish the thought

Finish the th

Fin

train

We’re standing on a packed commuter train. You’re sick, nausea rearing its head after an evening of standing, swaying, smiling, singing. The train settles into a gentle rocking rhythm; I wrap one long, lanky arm entirely around your waist, the other in a death grip on the metal railing above our heads, and you lock your body into place against mine. The florescent background of conversation fades as my focus centers on your hair against my chest, your rhythmic breathing, your steady intention, gingerly moving from one moment to the next. My hands have spent the night cautiously dodging your stomach, unable to acknowledge the truth growing inside, but now, feeling the rounded flesh through layers of cotton, I am acutely aware of the current coursing through my skin, reaching to engage this strange and precious intruder. Your hands clutch my skin with every jerk and jolt of the train; station stops shake you out of your reverie long enough to look up at me with bleary eyes and kiss me softly. High speeds turn to a gentle rocking, a hundred strangers sharing this giant metal crib.