tiny crumbs

doors close on your fingers and tiny crumbs stick to your toes when you walk around the kitchen barefoot in the middle of the night and you know you could sleep if it weren’t for the burning in your heart and the stinging in your legs. i overheard a group of people talking about how awful it must be to be old and have all the many parts of you feel like they’re breaking, and I considered for the moment, how awful it must be to pretend like you’ve got everything together.

I know what it feels like to have every part of me melt away into the dull pain of a lonely night and I’ve woken up breathless and sore from the night before so don’t try and tell me that you don’t remember the feeling. Maybe my way of forgetting is letting men run their fingers across my face while I lay still. Maybe my way of letting go is running down the street in the rain and yelling into the cold air. Maybe I don’t know the first thing about being alone, despite the countless hours staring at blank screens and empty glasses, and maybe I don’t quite know what it feels like to lose everything I love, but I sure as hell like to pretend I do.


Gate E34

The time is 9:47am. Gate E34. There is a young man wearing red headphones and an elderly lady hugging her legs to her chest. My head is throbbing and my eyelids are getting increasingly heavy. I am wearing my collared khaki blouse with my mother’s black cardigan. A man in a white shirt and black tie looks out the window as if looking into another world. A door shuts, a phone rings. The airport is filled with endless chatter. We’re all here for the same thing. To go somewhere else. Somewhere far away. We wear our own shoes, but put on a stranger’s face. No one can see you here. We already passed security. They took our faces away to protect the american way of life. To ensure that we are each our own threats to tall buildings and low skies. Sometimes they even fear themselves. Wondering how anyone could trust them with their identities. Identities and faces floating in the clouds. An invisible man takes us away from whatever it is we’re running from. I woke up far too early to maintain an open mind. But I keep it open anyhow. To put myself on a jet plane. To fly away with everyone else. All the other faces. Some closed, some empty, broken, cold. There’s a tunnel for people like us. It wont take us into our mechanical bird, but an eternal sky.

A Piece in June

“its about chances. changes. its about screwing up and doing the same thing a thousand times until it kills us. its about finding something that is so undoubtedly a terrible idea, and doing it just to figure out if it was a terrible idea. its miserable and twisted but its ours. and its all we have to share.”

i want there to be flowers

i want there to be flowers in my hair and grass between my toes. i want trees to encompass everything i am, and embrace me. i want the first frost of winter to come towards me as a whisper, as a song. i want it to touch me. i want the words in books to leap off their pages. i want the ideas in my head to come out of hiding. i want to be seen. i want peach colored roses on my doorstep. i want my name written in a text book. i want the sunset and the sunrise to meet eachother and find the end of the earth with their lips. i want little eyes to look up to me and wonder. wonder about all the wonders of the world. i want to be a mother, to braid her hair and sing her to sleep. i want to put her artwork up on the fridge like her own personal gallery. she’ll be famous, i’ll say. i’ll teach her to dream. to always hope for the flowers. to always swim to the shoreline. to always gasp for breath at the sight of everywhere. i want there to be roses. roses in the place of tears when i die. i want her to smile. i want the world to look at her and wonder, wonder what her mother was like. i want a place among the trees. to be a voice among the leaves. i want to be heard. to be felt between your toes, to grow against your legs, to wrap you in my song. i want to live among the wildflowers. i want you to pick me up and take me home. i want to be the wind in your hair. the breath in your lungs. the love on your lips when you kiss your baby girl goodnight. i want there to be flowers. 

“…an empty soul”

i’m terribly hot, alone, i have eaten way too much fast food, i read the 543 paged book i never read for my english class in about an hour, i still have yet to write the essay upon which my salvation depends, i feel the desire to write and sleep and complain, contemplate the meaning of life as we know it, recall the recent memory of deceased strangers and analyze it until i have figured out where we go when we die. My priorities in life are severely out of order as i sit here alone in my bed with a pretty face and an empty soul.

not enough

I don’t have enough money in my pockets, I don’t say enough, preach enough, I don’t work hard enough, I’m barely tall enough, barely strong enough. I don’t pray enough, eat enough. I don’t do enough homework, try enough. I don’t laugh enough, sleep enough. I’m not courageous enough, I don’t care enough. NOT important enough. I’m not emotional enough, social enough. And even though I try, nothing will ever be

good enough.

Ten Dozen Chances

Sometimes I wish I would get struck by lightening. To leave myself behind. Sending me spiraling, drowning in electricity. A timeless misery. Power in my viens, a story to feed my soul. Giving me a reason to stay awake. I wont go outside tonight. Invincible intuition creeping out the separation. We’ll all be in shock. Locks on our mouths to prevent a person proud. Ten dozen chances, lining up at the door, by the long metal pole at the end of the hall. Waiting for you to carry yourself away and fall. A rainstorm and a rally, a risky rancid reprise. hiding in your left mind. See, I saved you this time.

A Tumultuous Mind

Most days are rainy. the city lights are infinite, revealing the stains on your clothes, the dirt on your hands, and the smoke in your breath. The fog doesn’t help much, forming whirlpools of regret like an ominous cloud. You’re taking a walk through central park like you do everyday. You’re searching for who you’re supposed to be. You think you might be miserable. So you take in the fresh air and exhale slowly, just to be sure. Remind yourself you’re still there. It’s merciless and cold. You feel like screaming at nothing, because nothing’s there. Or rather no one. You keep walking, your steps in perfect rhythem with your turmultuous mind. 


I’m enlisting in the good of humanity. Guns loaded with words and empty promises. Find the damned and pull the trigger. So, we’re all happy. Happy doing the same thing day after day. Happy without purpose. It’s camouflage. Sleeping in the silence. No one would ever expect tragedy caused by happiness. Post traumatic. Kill the enemy, the friend, the teacher. But now they’re gone. Fading away into insanity. The deranged, tangled, waste of space occupying the holes inside our head.