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where wishes go
i used to sit on the window ledge at night bathe in the moonlight i used to hang my wishes on comets and shooting stars and if they were too heavy I’d talk to saturn and mars i used to pray that love would find me and lift me up to heights unknown like a…
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the other side of the window (from the vault)
I’ve lain in the dark for a fortnight my shattered, jagged and weak edges sprawled on the floor like broken glass waiting to fade into nothing or for them to come and take me away; i hoped for the former. i held my breath till the wildest winter creeped in i told everyone else all…
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find you again (from the vault)
when the day was done we laughed and played then laid to rest on the hill that rose over the city looked up at the sky it was maroon at twilight “the sunset is beautiful,” and so are we,” i said. “but i won’t be beautiful for long; i may lose this battle.” he replied…
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inconvenience me (from the vault)
i learned that existing as a human being is dirty work some might say it is a burden others might say that it is an inconvenience. so then, darling, may i ask will you allow me to be inconvenienced by you? i will stay behind and wait for you to tie your shoes if you…
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tarry a while (from the vault)
and i wish you tarried a while; seek cover, for the winters are unforgiving. right now i may look dead and unyielding my hollowed out stem and ghoulish branches, all the way to the treetop, all tell that tale; they have always tried to cut me down and each time the axe landed the agony…
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could you please love me? (from the vault)
could you love me without me having to beg for it don’t let me lick it from jagged-edged knives when it should have been served to me on a silver platter. i shouldn’t have to beg on my knees, see how they bled (could it be easy this once?) could you please love me without…
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maybe i’ve lost my spark (the show must go on)
we’re running out of earth and the sun’s not on our side and i fear the moon turned angry and vengeful ∗ ∗ ∗ i think I’ve lost my spark my sense of wonder might be a little tired. or dead. the birds don’t sing to me like they used to and the sun seldom…
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the day that i died
on the day that i diedi woke up invisiblespread my bed and fluffed the pillowwhere i lay my headand my dreams and hopes and fearsall these past years i sat on the ledgeand looked out over the sleeping cityand there was nary a star in the skythe moon was in hidingthe air had the taste…
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protect me from what i want
the very thing i clamour fori recoil at the first sight ofand run awaylike a wounded, whimpering dogi always licked it from knivesand crumbs off the floorprotect mefrom what i wantif you handed it to methen i wouldn’t know what to dowith iti would cup it in my handsand cradle itand hold it too tightand…
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Sometimes My Pen Feels Heavy / fragile
sometimes my pen feels heavyand so i trembleas i wield it to paperwhat if the words i birthare frail, stillborn things?what ifthey’re prematurely hatched birdswith clipped and slighted wings? sometimes my pen feels heavylike a judge’s gaveleach and every blank page is a courtroomand i’ll sentence myselfwith the weight of my sentences sometimes my pen…
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Emotion 