Spring Dawn

spring dawn

You’re the snowdrop that delicately lifts 

Its head up from the melting snow—

The way first blades of grass push up

through the blanketed plateau. 

You’re the shy and rosy blush 

Of the briar’d, waxen rose; 

The golden warmth of apricity

and the hopping, playful crows. 

You’re the soft and dew-touched hush 

Of the leaves after the rain—

The deep bellow of white-winged geese 

Heading home—home—again. 

You’re the fragile, dainty dance 

Of the young and prancing fawn; 

The dappled light of komorebi 

From the slow rising of spring dawn. 

daughter of dusk

daughter of dusk, 

selfish and cruel—

breaking, falling, 

her faces dual 

raw petals curling from 

cracked emerald eyes

nourished by tears 

and quiet lies

bleeding hope from 

thorn-lined skin—as

briar shields flower

as hands from help

don’t leave me please—

etched in starlight 

don’t let me go—

please hold me tight

then bleeding—bleeding; 

red slowly seeping 

lines upon lines while 

waiting for the reaping

but she’s right there

stay—leave—stay—please

is it—she—me—so wrong

you’re on your knees

just say it’s fine and

bandage the cuts

it’s just a bad dream. 

keep your eyes shut.

Love, —

I’ve always wondered why people start their letters with “dear”. Were the first people to write letters friends? Lovers? Family? How close were they to spill their hearts upon a piece of paper, all starting with the word “dear”? 

I’m not going to start this with “dear”. You don’t deserve that. You never were my dear. Perhaps we could’ve, in another world, in another time. But not now. Not here. 

Is it possible to be heartbroken without any words being spoken? To crush hope without a noise? I always thought it’d be louder, bigger, greater, yet here I end with barely a whimper. 

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I should be over you. I thought I was over you. Yet each time I see you, there’s a pain in my heart, a twinge in my soul. You were the one who decided to stop talking to me, yet wherever you look at me, there’s something odd in your gaze. 

I don’t get it. Why? Every time I think it’s over, you talk to me—the barest conversation—and I do this all over again. You build me up then throw me down, all without realizing it. 

And I hate myself for it. I hate this feeling, this emotion that I can’t control. I hate that I know that it won’t work, yet I so desperately want it to work. I hate subconsciously looking for you everywhere I go. I hate remembering that your favorite color is blue, that you don’t like sweet foods. I hate thinking about your voice and what made you laugh. I hate knowing that you never looked at me the way I wanted you to. I hate knowing you loved someone else and she loved you too. I hate the relief I felt when you didn’t date her. I hate that I want you. I hate that I miss you. I hate that I love you. 

But I could never hate you. 

I wish I could. I wish I could scream and cry and yell at you. I wish I could tell you exactly how I feel. I wish I hated you instead of myself. 

But I don’t. 

So I’m sorry. 

I love you. 

how to tell a story

How does one tell a true story? 

My poetry is not true. 

They are half-truths I decorate in flowers and sugar. They are little lies that I rip apart and chew and swallow and smile with blood stained teeth and say: look. I am an artist. I give you my heart and I chop it into fine pieces so it is palatable for you. I tear the flesh from my bones and devour it and spill my entrails upon the floor and make my carcass into art. Look at me and praise my pain. 

I say: I am a poet. 

This is a lie. 

I am not a poet. I am a broken human being who spills ink and blood upon pages. I am a thief who steals all the pain from others and take it for myself so that I may sing about my grief. I am not a poet. 

I say: I am a poet. 

This is a truth. 

I grasp at words and lay them upon my tongue and savor the taste of honey and decay. I spit them upon the page and create art. The words says what my voice cannot. 

I say: she was searching for home. 

I do not say: she would never find it. 

I say: the bloodied sheets pooled around her like snow around a dead bird and she wondered if she was dying. 

I do not say: society told her that she was a woman now and her body was no longer hers. 

I say: she was a soft down-feathered bird, fluttering her feathers, singing so sweetly.

I do not say: they’d broken her wings. They’d torn them off of her and flung them into the air. They said it would heal. It did. Her flesh forgot the wrongs they’d committed. Her heart did not. 

I say: she was an angel. 

I do not say: she had sinned too much to ever fly again. 

(I ask: But what is sin? 

They answer: the antonym to purity. You are not pure. You are dirty, dirty, dirty. You are tainted and evil and sinning. You have turned your back to God.

God? I ask. Plaintive. Pleading. Pathetic. Who is God? Why have I been condemned? 

There is no answer.) 

I say: God is real. 

This is a lie. 

I do not believe in a higher being. I have seen too much to look up at the heavens and say that someone watches over me, cradles me, guards me, loves me. The pain does not make me a better person, make me more whole, make me more good. It does not teach me to value what I have. It does not make me more beautiful. Fuck that. I make myself beautiful. 

I say: God is real. 

This is a truth. 

It is a truth when I look at you. 

It is a truth when I am on my knees begging—I love you I’ll serve you I’ll do anything for you because maybe if I beg for your love as I do a god then you will not leave me and you will not hate me and you will smile at me and say that I am good enough. 

It is a truth when I pick up the pen and write. 

It is a truth when I write about love and sweet kisses and fate and destiny and you. 

I say: I love you. 

This is a lie. 

You do not exist. You are some distant wish in my head for love and companionship. You are some shapeless dream of a perfect partner, of a perfect kind of love. 

I say: I love you. 

This is a truth. 

I love the idea of you. I love the idea that love exists. I love the idea of sneaking kisses, of stealing your scarf in autumn, of waking up in your arms, of soft dometistic love. I love that somewhere out there, you exist, and you are not perfect, you are not heavenly, you are not the most beautiful creature to grace this planet—but you are you and I love you. 

I say: let me tell you a story.

I say: this is all true. 

I say: this is all a lie. 

I say: that does not mean it is not real. 

I say: truth is a semi-permeable membrane. 

I say: this is how to tell a story.

kindred stars

night unveils her jewels at 

your askance, painting each 

star with patient detail; the 

heavens murmur to you and

gift you gossamer wings. 

climbing silken ropes of 

nebulae, delicate in their 

earthen creation, as if you 

are always reaching for 

the cosmos up above. 

You lift earthbound eyes to 

kindred stars—reaching, always

reaching, for a light that I

cannot see, yet—I want 

to see what you reach for. 

From corded aerie to stardust—

the velvet night spinning your 

dreams to eternity’s archive 

holding you in its arms; 

slowly—softly—gently…

flicker

So small am I in Time’s tight fist, 

A singular match struck on stone. 

The drag of friction calls me into being, 

Only to flicker out as I am blown. 

Yet in this split second I illuminate more 

Than those who burn for centuries. 

My mere seconds compare to their hours; 

Time enough in my own eternity. 

Fleeting meaning against immortal being. 

Would you prefer to always be living? 

Mortals in their inevitable extinguish

see what the gods are always unseeing. 

Light the candle, slowly burning, 

Light it at the cost of me; 

How odd it is that I, so brief,

should teach the timeless how to be.