On my way out the door,
I pause with one leg in the air
to tie my shoelace- I wouldn’t
want to trip on my way out.

As my leg touches the ground,
I peer up at the mirror
to my right- suddenly, I’m

This isn’t my first time
being sucked into my own
pupils in my reflection-
this isn’t my first time
yearning to find that
person looking back
at me in the mirror.

On nights spent glaring
up at ceilings, and on
days spent staring down
the floor two feet ahead
of my next step,
I cannot see the ceiling,
nor do I perceive the floor.

It’s a sensation-
a phenomenon-
which is hard to explain;
I peer into mirrors
again and again.

I need to stop
searching for me inside
anybody but myself-
I’m confident I’ll find me,
my reflection can tell.

Momentary lapse in concentration

I'm sorry for the way
my brisk stride disturbs
the settled atmosphere
of the air around me.

The air did nothing to deserve that.

I felt lost until you found me,
then I left before I could
find myself. 

Now there isn't a leaf, blown 
carelessly onto the pavement, 
that I couldn't disturb with
the weight of my heavy shuffling.

How worthy is a master carpenter
without a developed taste for
art in their work? 

I'd rather be the architect-
at least then you'd be 
immortalized in my imagination,
instead of the cause of momentary
lapses in my concentration.


I cannot write any more

I cannot write any more;
every time my pen
touches paper, it catches fire-
I cannot contain it.

My words glow, then crackle,
then burst alight- for too long
I’ve been riding through this
tunnel, writing, waiting for
the light.

I think of new ways
to repackage old statements,
I’m tired of writing and
I’m tired of feeling weightless.
I hate this. I can taste it.

I cannot write any more
since every time I write,
my words protrude from the
page like
hot daggers and knives.
They pierce me like the way
ink penetrates paper.

The fire used to feel warm
until it grew with my words
and cornered me into
needing to be heard;
the fire used to feel warm until
it burned me to my core.

I’m mesmerized by the flames-
my words animated in smoke;
I cannot write any more,
for I’m fearful that I'll choke.

I write to immortalize
such thoughts and feelings,
but the fire has grown-
it now reaches the ceiling.

I cannot write any more,
the fire scorches my hand;
there isn't much more
I could withstand.

I cannot write any more.

“Get home safe”

Love is in neither heart
nor soul; love is in the 
"be safe, drive slow."

Love is with your hand to hold;
love is in the way you're told
"text me first thing
when you get home."

Love is in the effects 
that come after;
love is something you 
just feel happening.

I don't know if this is love,
if it's bold of me
to make the suggestion; 
I don't know if my expression 
is enough.

Love me not for my spoken word,
love me for my greater purpose;
love me like I wasn't worthless.