poem

Sometimes homes do not want to protect you. Sometimes they want to see you burn in the fires they light. / Sometimes homes rot, and they want to see you rot too.

Chance could have faced anywhere else, the fog rolling out to sea, the waning moon or maybe even just toward nothing at all, I walked right past his organs baking on the asphalt with a vacuum in my chest.

You stopped playing / Go back / Give me the nocturne in the dusky air. / Come closer / The earth wants immensely to know you / Begged me to introduce / You.

The garage lies in shambles before me, and I can see myself lying in the rubble — just another victim of the collapse. Just another victim of my insistence on zeroing in on the bad and never on the good.

Trace me / I am a silhouette / Erase my coloring / I am a b&w sketch. 

We tell stories that never do the trick. The events of my day are articulable, but the meaning of a day is always greater than its constituent moments.

You say I’m a classic belle. You have no idea how badly I wanted to hear that. An affirmation that I am not the mess I perceive myself to be

there’s a bubble in the wall above our pillows. it’s a painted over bulge, caught condensation from decades of tenants mouth breathing into a room