I am afraid to love you

Afraid that you’d find me

hiding behind pretty words

and castles of gold,

only to find that I was

not the person you wanted

me to be

I am afraid that you’ll

see the scars that paint my

skin and the blood that

lingers between my teeth

and decide that maybe I am

too broken to be put back




I am so afraid to fall

for your smile or the twinkle

in your eyes

because your words peel from me

bit by bit everything i

kept sacred behind lips

sewn tight and you kiss them

shackles fall apart and I

am scared because I’m falling

into your dark eyes,

feeling around in the night

and the crunch under my bare


resonate in my skull and I wonder

where you are when I

drown in the sensation of

me without you.

You say you love me more

than I love you but you

don’t know how my

soul has memorized the sound

of your name and repeated it

to itself so many times

every metal and element

is stained with the letters of




So please,

bear with me when I

cannot say I love you

because those words would be

the key to the oceans

stirred up in my soul

and I am afraid you’ll

get washed away with the rest

of the world

and I will be left

standing at my seaside cliff


where you’ve gone.


The Hardest Thing

I’ve always been good at beating around the bush and hiding behind prose, rather than delivering a message straight. My poems or pseudo poems are all tapestries woven from things I wish I had the courage to say.

I’ve always been good at pretending I liked someone or flirting with someone I wasn’t even remotely attracted to; it’s how I get by– knowing that I was in control, that I could disappear if I wanted to, unscathed.

That’s the problem when you pass me by. My heart races and oceans decide to manifest between the folds of my hands, my eyes find nowhere better to rest than the slope of your jawline. I’ve always been good at pretending, but terrible at telling the truth.

When you slip your fingers between mine, I swear my lungs burst into flames; when you brush your lips over my skin, I forget where I am.

You are a book I wish I could keep on my bookshelf, turning page after page into the night; always finding more creases and indentions to love as my fingers find your pages and get cut along your corners. You are that song on the radio I can’t seem to escape from: all one thousand of them.

Do you see now? I’ve never been good at getting to the point.

That’s the hardest thing when a liar like me falls in love.


I knew I was in trouble
when my atoms bent against
the curve of your hands
filling in those spaces
desperately yearning to be
the perfect match
for your lonely soul
trapped inside this cage
of flesh
that mutes a blooming
universe splashed with the
signals of memories
traveling through airwaves
but never meeting lips
silenced as you push
on by
leaving a trail of
stars for me to find when
the sun burns out and I
am left to grasp at
the parts of me no longer
knowing what they are
without the curve of your

I’m trying so hard not to talk to you, but whenever something good happens, you’re the first one I want to share it with.


Old Flames

July’s proving to be the month of old flames–no matter how weird the story behind it.

I can’t quite bring myself to be poetic about it at two in the morning, a tad tipsy and a bushel confused. I once knew, but not really knew this boy; my friends and I code named him “strawberry” for reasons I’m still unsure of. As relationships of the strange nature that ours was went, and at the tender age of much too young; it was really one of my more interesting early experiments HAHAHA. So why write about this boy?

Well, by some stroke of luck, I saw him during a truancy session at a college I didn’t even go to– the thought? hot damn. It was just a few moments, but in those few I found myself fighting the urge to slap myself across the face, remembering the dumb shit a much younger me did. Life goes on, and we let sleeping giants lay.

But I guess now is the time to introduce dsj, yet another old (one-sided) flame that I had the opportunity to reconnect with. I remember the day I met him so clearly, down to what I was wearing. Not because I held on to that moment, but because the people around me never let me forget it. So into my classmate’s house I strolled, wearing the ugliest sweater and jeans, not expecting anything great to happen….. But then there it is: sophomore boys molded by god’s own hands. Or at least to my fifteen year old self.

Now dsj, he wasn’t anything special at first glance: I was a little taller than him, and he hid behind thick rimmed glasses. It was the moment he opened his mouth, though, that I was absolutely taken. Wit, sarcasm, and the ability to get me, the snark queen, to shut the fuck up. I was infuriated, embarrassed, and mystified. The usual awkward silences ensued and I had then convinced myself that it wasn’t worth it; but as he had to leave, me muttered something in a voice I can no longer recall, “It was really nice talking to you tonight.” And once again, I was floored. I got home, and the symbol of interest in our generation lay in wait: one friend request.

Needless to say, things didn’t quite turn out so great– which was completely my fault, by the way. I was dealing with being an insecure teenager and held on much too tight. I don’t know how it happened, but dsj and I, two years later, are suddenly reconnecting; and in a way that feels so much easier than before.

July’s posing to be interesting… I can’t wait to see what crazy shit is going to happen this time.