I was sixteen when

I told my mom

“I think I’m a sociopath.

I don’t know how to feel,

without acting like a mirror.”

And she laughed

as she told me to pray.

I was twenty one when

I told my mom

“I think I’ve found love.”

And I could hear her cries from

Five thousand miles away.

I was twenty three when

my mom told me,

“You were never quite right,

of course I had my fears.

But God perseveres.”

And I laughed

because sometimes

irony is overwhelming.


What we don’t talk about..

My naked body did not inherit

my affinity for well kept secrets.

It tells stories like your drunken tongue,

and wears it’s battles like a uniform.

You can see where the skin has stretched

from when I finally began to eat.

And there are colors like permanent ink

under my eyes, because I still don’t sleep.

There are silver lines and bruises

my fingers inflicted before we found a truce.

If a picture is worth a thousand words,

a body tells stories with ten times more.

But I learned when I was fifteen,

no matter how loud I hear these things scream,

when you share your body like a poorly kept secret

they only have eyes for what they want to see.


You used to drink freshly brewed coffee at 2 am when your inhaler ran out. You said the heat and caffeine was a natural remedy, for when your lungs stopped cooperating. And the cigarette between your lips was a welcome, if not necessary irony.

So I mean to say I am like a luke warm cup of coffee at 2 am when your inhaler runs out. I am like the cigarette between your lips, the welcome, if not necessary irony with nothing to even it out.


We have a new weekly tradition.

An opportunity for you to purge

the anger and hurt I have caused.

You run words down my skin,

like razors digging in.

And I will accept it,

we can call it atonement.

A Work in Progress

I say I am rough around the edges,

because eventually all of their hands

begin to feel like sand paper.

They say I’m rough around the edges,

because their tongues are chisels,

and how long can it take to chip the rest away?

Just Breathe

We’ve said goodbye 

seven times

in seven days. 

And the hardest 

was the second time 

I saw your face. 

I will apolgize 

for the rest of my life. 

so I’m sorry the air 

is easier to breathe when 

I’m alone on my own two feet. 

But I guess it feels like

I stole the air straight 

from your chest. 

I still feel the need 

to take care you. 

And that’s hard to face,

when I’m finally trying 

to take care of me too. 

I’m sorry

for every goodbye

you weren’t listening

close enough to hear.