Category Archives: Poetry

Dear Charly Cox,

a response to a newfound poet and her book, She Must be Mad.

Thank you.

I am on your first page


I am at your precipice &


you have told me of myself.

Your words a warning

in the midst of our 20-something fog.

I want to see myself in you

so I do. 

You call me out

with everyone too old & too young

to love me

to love you

to love anyone.

But I love you, 

I just don’t know the caliber,

because you know age means nothing 

& everything.

No matter how many times we circle the sun,

we will never be young enough or old enough

to have abscesses of time.

You know this & remember

it all means nothing.

Your words are nothing but a string of letters

spun at random

to the wrong eye. But to mine,

you are perfect. You place these perfections

with intention made easy by years hardened; 

you are whimsical. I like your whims,

the metaphors you follow to their end. 

You are real.

I don’t know your face,

but I know your voice.

And I think I have for a while. 

You Said It.

When I press publish 

I let myself dream 

that his eyes will drift

over the words I’ve written to him.

The ones I can’t publish in private. 

I let my mind pause on his,

my thoughts think on his,

because this is enough. It has to be.

He doesn’t need to read my heart anymore,

he shouldn’t

just as I shouldn’t 

pour the contents of my heart at his feet anymore

so I don’t.

I toss mixed feelings with mixed metaphors in a blender.

Convoluted conceits for him,

blood-red end stops for us,

and Charly said it.

“[I] never got to tell him how [my] heart held out,

how it still occasionally chooses to hold out” (7)

but that’s just it, 

a choice. 

Intrusive thoughts.

The smoke leaking from the wrong end of that cigarette

would taste better blackening your lungs;

but even better, drawn from the faucet of his lips.

Not him, who wants you,

but him, the one who used to want you. 

He will crawl back to you

one day

holding his alcohol and snuff in one hand,

his addictions he warned you about at 20.

He wasn’t too young to know himself,

just too young to change himself.

He will grow back into you

or grow tumors into the spaces you used to fill.

You will say it’s too late, then wait.

Peak your eyes through the crack in your slow-swung door,

and he will come back again,

knowing you are too proud to take him back the first time.

How would you look at yourself in the mirror again,

if you didn’t feign strength?

You will, knowing he loves you,

and you will draw smoke from his lips.

You will clean his lungs

because imagined cancer is cured by love that doesn’t really exist.

You will cleanse him and tell this ghost of him the truth

That the worst intruders are ourselves. 


“I’ve kissed plenty of boys… 

They all sort of sound similar

which is why it is important to say

not everything I write is about you” (8&9).

You know who you are,

but you don’t know which you belongs to us.

There are so many before and after

and because and 

I don’t realize how many,

until there is still a waving ocean of poems,

after I take you out of the equation. 

Paper Paint. 

White out for the white man I gave everything.

Everything was a chance,

he knows, 

ask him,

because I can’t. 

He is scared to text me,

and we both know he cries every time

my name lights his screen, 

like it used to.

Yet a flood of self-reports 

gushes in blue apple

when he works us the courage.

He won’t text first, but he always texts last.

And I wish I could white out what is real,

because he would be so beautiful

if I could take back half of him,

without taking everything. 

“Knowledgable Near-Misses” (14). 

We all quench our thirst

with people we wish were another.

But this just licks our splitting lips,

pretending a tongue into chapstick.

“Stop teasing feeling” (11); anxiety isn’t passion. 

But it can be, if you let it.

Unstuck your eyes from your own,

just for a moment

and watch the millions of moments smile

for your peripheral vision.

Try learning from lessons,

just try it, and make a different mistake.


I use my own foreign tongue

to bring this world to life.

Yet it is the voices of home

I chuckle for speaking.

If my mother could hear

the “r’s” that come as air

from my throat & my father

could ecute the “l’s” I pronounce as “ie”

they would stick awe on their faces.

Wondering how I hear the conversations around me, 

knowing words not as lagging English 

but as delayed meaning. 

An exercise in class,

come to life. 

Love Letter to Charly,

I hardly go a poem without writing.

This is my love language, 

maddening metaphors

littered beauty.

Even if I didn’t like women, I would be in love.

Because your voice understands me

by understanding yourself. And I don’t know you,

but it doesn’t matter.

Can we kiss & tell

about the boys who have wronged us?

Can we make love

and drive each other to the airport?

Can I read and write all over you, and

can you act like it is all original?

The Life We Know.

I am so used to misunderstanding 

to overlapping sounds and unmatched pitches.

Hearing earing-stabbed crescendos of sound.

Even he pauses before he speaks frankly.

Mais c’est difficile pour moi

parce que il est un homme gentile,

parce que il n’est pas difficile,

he leaves that to me. 


Unpick beauty from sense & smarts from lust,

like the calling card pattern

of bad decisions & bows.

I don’t know yet if her lips

will chew me to ruin.

I’ve never broken her skin before,

not with words,

not sober in the sun.

I lust after someone else’s lust for me.

If she wants me enough,

I will crave her, 

and all the men will look on

like touching each other is an invitation.

What if it started this way,

friends at parties

licking the bubble gum sexy from each other’s lips,

like we just want something to chew on?

Am I half & half, or just everything?

If you have one half covered, 

it’s hard to single out the other. 

Alternate Dreams.

Play out what he didn’t say as though he did

because that will help

of course it will. 

To imagine what other world you could take.

You could be happy. 

You are always happy,

like sadness is a past emotion.

Erase fear while you are at it. Not yours- his.

You can handle your own. 

The future has no cracks because you painted it.

You cocked the seams, 

but you can’t really believe your lies 

with his eyes cocked closed. 

You dreamt last night

of your teeth in his neck, just 

like a million times before, but 

this was now. You sunk your teeth 

in closed-eyed flesh & felt a pang where your new lover lies.

Open eyes flashed through the colors you tried to choose,

as though you had a choice, 

and instead of stopping, you took them both in your mouth 

and screamed yourself awake.

You rolled over in your duveted cocoon

and read the message only one of them sent. 

“There is Something Inside of You that Begs to Feel Sad” (32).

even when all around you is joy and half-sung voices,

laughing and running with more energy than you can stomach.

yet you join knuckled hands because you are supposed to, and

you can’t think of a reason to say no.

you have no excuse but the synapses that snap too tight,

too static

but not vibrant enough to resonate outside 

that tiny place in your mind that keeps your legs moving,

keeps your limbs cradling a smile,

and calms your fingers across another’s cheek, because

its okay for someone else to cry. deep breaths, baby,

tell them it will be okay. they can be happy. you are happy,

you just don’t know how to stop sadness. 


“Tonight you’ll have your first kiss.

you know it, you can see it… you feel

so terrifyingly far behind that if it’s not,

womanhood will never greet you” (34)

Is that why you will drink enough to like him,

next time, because you know what to expect now,

even if you still feel behind.

Dancing and saying no, no, no.

Until you ask so it can be your idea.

You are drunk & high & 4am awake,

so you like the way he kisses you.

You hope he is playing you,

so you don’t have to play him. 

It’s 50/50 you’ll find.

You are only truly in trouble

if you both take the wrong 50.

So kiss him, and see. 

Do you like it? Or do you need another drink? 

“Its a morishness sans lust,

it feels innate” (35)

and when you kiss one morning 

waking and sober

you’ll be startled that your body works,

outside of a dream. 


You spend too much money,

too much to stuff change back into your pocket. 

Give it to the people who ask for it. 

If you can spend it on yourself, 

you should give it to them.

You haven’t made money in months.

“Its much easier this way,

[being] the go-to girl for a good time” (43)

you think they can’t tell.

Yet even he, your new friend,

the one who wraps you in his arms

and asks you what it means,

says he sees. 

He says you can’t be sunny all the time,

but you’ve only shown him the sun.

“Which part of you is acting?”

He says he can see, but you can’t.

“Even though the weight still feels tangible,

it can’t be real” (44), but still,

we can be real without weight.

Selective Feeling.

If I wasn’t screaming

cursing my mind

cursing my mouth


how would I pass the time?

If I wasn’t sinking,

who would watch the world rise around me?

What feelings would stand tallest?

If I didn’t cry,

what would salt my cheeks and wash me pink?

What water would I drink

in the space that forbids all departures

from duvet clouds and feather-stuffed prisons?

What voices would tell me stories,

keep me laughing,

if they weren’t mine?

What would I dream

if my head went quiet,

and my lips sucked sanity from a clear glass,

not smoke from a marbled cup?

What reality could cradle me

better than my near-insanity?

What is left around me

if I smoke out my imagination?

What landscape keeps me without color?


The LA cameras didn’t think I was too young

but my mom called me too sexy.

Not with words but with more fabric,

thick, woven colors over 11-year-old skin.

They called me out of 5th-grade class. 

I was photographed and posed

praised and prodded.

My eyes stung with interior wind,


and you better open your eyes 

while your hair is still floating.

It’s this golden mop- it must be.

The color. I am all the colors 

that name you pretty, so 

that must be all there is to it.

My face has pretty shapes 

because they burn red in the sun.

But don’t let that happen. You aren’t supposed to be real.

But I suppose if this skin insists, 

we can edit reality out later.

Slim child thighs and keep my 5’10” frame-please

take my torso and leave the loose skin,

I need it. 

They choose me from a thousand paper heads,

they choose my numbers,

the lies I refuse to correct with a scale. 

They choose me,

so why don’t I feel beautiful?

It’s not a question.

Gum for Dinner (86).

Dinner is spelled with two “n’s” 

because you want more of it, don’t you?

You always want more, but you are getting better at saying no.

Diner is too small to feed you,

though it tries. With pancakes & poured coffee,

bitter sugar to make you sick.

What you want is the feeling of less. 

The breath caught in your chest,

the breath you wish was enough

to keep you full. 

You try coffee

You try water

You try closing your eyes

any immediate suppressant 

but there is always that other “n” on your plate.

Finish me, finish your dinner.

Convince them you are getting better.

Get better,

but don’t let better give you that extra letter. 

“I feel pretty when I’m told I am” (91).

Then the half-life compliment dies, always slowly.

Dissolving into my drink alone,

I can’t feel anything alone,

not even the alcohol I guzzle just to prove the point.

It just passes through my lips, and I wonder why

I don’t paint myself pretty anymore. 

All I remember is it all being too much-

that powdered tan with its creamed partner.

Brush it! Blend it! Melt it into your skin!

With bristles- no, a sponge- no, your fingers- no,

you should have never started

you just made everything less than perfect, less.

You didn’t erase your faults, you circled them. 

There! There they are- red & white & not quite skin-colored.

You aren’t skin anymore, you are a “trying-to-be-pretty-face.”

I’m called pretty as soon as I leave the mirror.

Releasing my shackled adjectives

and letting them wash down the sink-rotting

with my other discarded features under the drain.

I still smell them when I come home,

so no one is ever invited over. 

“When Did I Become an Image to Sell?” (92).

People praise pretty

like a choice between pink & blue.

Like we choose what grows between our legs,

even if we like it.

And if I use the men’s restroom 

because the woman’s was full, 

does it have to be a statement?

Does it have to be anything at all?

What is wrong with that cardinal call?

To empty our bladder, as all animals, anyway we can.

Yet all of this matters so greatly, my love

for what other way would men find a difference 

between people and themselves?

It. (a response to Otters)

And not the screaming kind.

No, not the kind of horror that shocks silver screen

but the kind that shocks fear into reality, slowly,

how it is all of a sudden.

You weren’t painting outside

your love-shocked face doesn’t own a red nose,

but it is red. Because you haven’t had it in a while, 

and you got used to pretending you weren’t filled with phantoms.

It is not quite it anymore, but you imagined it away from opaque. 

You still read this, everything

I call it. I know you do.

Because even ghosts have IP addresses,

so I can still speak to you of it & you can’t speak back,

just like you always didn’t. But I’ll know you read it,

like you always did.

“Exposure therapy” (104).

There are two ways to get into a pool.

You can introduce your parts slowly to the cool of the water,

seeping skin under its depths in slow-motion, and

take deep breaths- a hundred- before you make it under.

Or you can fall, take a running jump, and plunge

body into cold, accepting shock that only lasts a moment,

and then wilts into numbness. 

You fall, and because you hate being responsible for his pleasure,

you take your own out of your hands.

You just lay there,

let him do as he pleases until he is pleased,

he gets there every time. 

That’s what you remind yourself, but then you start to wonder.

Is he good, or are you just easy?

Does his breath feel warm,

pressed flat on your stomach, or

do you just not have to do anything?

You can close your eyes and open your mouth and 

let him pump the exhales for you.

It’s easy to pass time like this,

but why are you just passing time?

You must like it because you say yes

when he asks you to beg.

You say stop, and you’re hurting me, and he goes faster.

Because you both agreed to this and you

are just an actress. 

The tears that wet your face-planted pillow 

must be the sweat of passion because you

like this.

Because you said yes, and you started it

by looking him in the eye like that.

You brushed his thigh first, and its not bad

if you feel loved and he gets there.

Before him, you waited for it to be over.

With him, you wait for him to start.

And after, you wait for another him to kiss you,

and sometimes, this one doesn’t ask for more. 

When Will I learn?

“Sometimes it is best to go home and straight to bed, instead of exploring the night” (118)

I feel I should know this now, but I never turn home,

not all the way.

I’ll board the bus home early, 9 o’clock,

just to get off at the next stop.

I don’t want to go home,

I never want to go home,

not until I am too tired to do anything but sleep.

So I step myself in the opposite direction,

even if my friends are gone,

or they were never here today,

I’ll find new ones. I’ll find somewhere 

small enough to hold me in a crowd,

invite the nearest English voice to speak to me,

and hope they don’t expect more than words.

Sometimes I’m safe and 

sometimes I’m lucky, and 

other times I blink from midnight into my bed.

“Not All of Them are Character Studies” (118).

Though they all start that way, don’t they?

With boy parts that dictate everything else about them &

first words I won’t be able to wipe from their forehead.

All my assumptions are true, they always are, until I see

someone too many times to minimize them out of human,

but I still generalize to cope.

Some people prove different, they all do,

I just don’t want to pay attention. 

Black Lung.

someday soon, or 

maybe today, because 

every day my cotton socks soak puddles

left airing out my window.

charcoal breath argues in tufts

a bouquet of white streaming.

my legs quake with the thoughts that come after

and my stomach quakes with the way I wait

for answers. fire burns through twisted paper

a playing card bent and rolled, kisses my lips.

I can hear the wind louder, 

when the window is closed. 

I think clearer about my old habits

the parallel existence of me

spliced by time. 

still head on two pillows

eye mask creased over brow

hands held in the pocket thighs make

my lids twitch with any vibration on layered sheets.

Someday soon, or

maybe it will be today, 

I won’t be able to breathe, because

every day my lungs bruise deeper. 

The Young and the Dead.

No one is too young to die

this fact is hammered

by Kings of Leon’s Joe’s Head.

It’s not his fault, but I blame him.

He is the one screaming

too loud and cracked through the lyrics,

over bass time and drum beats

blasted by his brothers.

Bands are always brothers, and 

bands always break. I’ve heard enough

pool-floating rock star unbreathing stories to know.

Even though I am thirteen and afraid and feeling

a new vortex inside of me that wasn’t there before. 

It’s a black hole. I just learned about those

and now they are everywhere. 

Sucking the life out of everything like a death eater &

I can’t make it stop. 

I fall over and over again into darkness and 

tears mark my face in this sudden. 

It is somber, but not silent.

Mortality is not a thing consumed without sound.

“Had to put a bullet in his head,”

the murdered subject bleeding,

“people can be so cold when they’re dead.”

Maybe he is imagined, but

I won’t give myself this comfort.

I must face the black hole while I have it,

but it spins too close and 

my breathing matches its irreverent pulse, and 

the only thing to pull me out is my mother smothering.

Next time it is a friend with headphones and a heavy arm.

Then a therapist thinks she solves all my problems 

with recycling. Like tumbling arrows will grow 

green over the black hole dilating

like a pupil of nothing at the back of my head.

I grow, even if it isn’t green

and she says different things with different faces

and I pretend to overcome my terror of the nothing

I know lies beyond this now. 

Just Smile.

my friends tell me, 

time and time again,

i don’t know how to frown.

i try, and try again, 

to live this version of the truth

but it tastes worse than suppressing an expression.

even if i don’t feel it, a smile is all

my face knows how to fall into.

i don’t have to feel it to fake it.

what are you supposed to be faking?

what, when you refuse to make anything

outside of a solemn grin real?

He loved me,

this one loves me,

and I can’t force feeling.

He is Cherry B and so many mistakes they start to look pretty.

His kisses linger on the hairs that catch on his teeth

from the back of my neck. They never disappeared,

they were half imagined anyways. How

do you lose someone you only held half the time?

Nothing changes.

Not from this day to the next,

but everything is different in this month.

So different from the last, but

the last was six ago.

Last month I already knew him,

he had nuzzled the same places he used to,

not all- but close. 

These kisses taste like cigarettes, like his

and red bull vodka, like his

and late nights, like his.

But it’s he who drives, pays, and speaks to me

unlike he ever did.

He traces the same patterns on my skin

but my responses don’t match my lips.

He is voice-overs and delayed reactions,

more honesty than I am used to deciphering.

He holds confidence in one hand,

and me in the other,

just like I do. 

He speaks with such power of thought,

even when he is saying nothing. 

Who does he think of in these sentences?

I learn him, I learn his words, and all the while

he is a character. 

I wish I could tell the old him about the new him,

without the question of jealousy

no manipulation or past love,

just speaking to the friend I used to have inside a lover. 

I wish I could tell him

how he rolls a spliff different,

with fingers that curl around my throat 

with too much slack.

How he reminds me of our favorite character

from the show we watched in the late nights

of his constant ailments. He was always in agony.

Why did I still love him? Why do I still dream of loving him?

The only answer is we can’t choose 

who touches us with that thought-erasing feeling.

We can choose who we spend our time with,

but we can’t change how he feels.

We only have so much choice when it comes to him.

There are so many hims. So close to the same.

And only I know the difference. 

“Am I Half Enough for You?” (140).

Can’t you blow off everything to do nothing with me?

If you did, it would make me worry, but if you don’t

I sit here. Cold hands & Cold feet,

none as warm as yours.

Time ticks, like it does in every cliche

and like the rest, I wait here forever. 

Chain-shackled to the blue arrow,

the pointed question I know you won’t hallow out.

Not tonight. And it isn’t fair, is it?

That I ask you and want him. I’d never tell you

but sometimes I close my eyes and blend you together.

I don’t feel guilt because I am in too deep to feel anything.

All I feel is empty, and you try to fill me, but still,

there is a piece of me I lost before you ever said my name.


I write a lot about half-lives

the way things multiply downward.

A million tiny pieces of what once was,

in these minuscule infinities.

I live in a place called half-hating you,

love is supposed to overcome any emotion,

but it shares my heart with hate.

I used to split love and pride there, but

now I’ve found pride in my bones.

I don’t need to practice it anymore, 

I have a cruel space for hate. 

You and I can’t shake love’s apples

from a golden tree I’ve rooted in self-worth, so

everything else is extra, but

I still crave the party of people I don’t need.

The party of one sad man child

who didn’t love himself enough

to love me. 

Sleep is for the Unloved.

I can’t sleep,

mulling mind over the same boys.

They never give up

never loosen their ghosts in my dreams,

never echo out of my ears with enough force to wake

me out of this static

pre-sleep sleep-writing.

Smearing this pen across this page is the only thing

that makes sense to me. So 

each night I echo the last, I

sign into the same seat,

sit bones slanted across a diagonal ankle.

Chin on hand on right knee.

Left hand cramped from playing with my feelings. And 

I can’t sleep. 

mulling fingers over the same words.

How many times have you read him between my lines?

I don’t try, my fingers curl 

these same letters into each other of their own accord,

imagining if I write something,

it’ll turn true. But maybe I can only write the truth,

the gushing mirrorball of all my privileged problems

at once.

Crowding the spotlight,

crowding the space between brain and hand and there-injected, 

is a memory. His hands rough on me 

because he thought he was going to lose me

when I cycled drunk cartwheels into the street.

He told his friends he couldn’t control me,

like that was a bad thing.

Everyone misses me,

at least that’s what they say into the funnel that drips

accounts of other people’s feelings into my ears.

You were harder, 

you held anger that night, 

and when I woke in the bloody mess you made of me,

I grasped something I never had before.

That love can be violent

love can be anger

and my body can give or take it away.

You used me, 

in more ways than one,

but I always held the power. 

What is the Word Womanly, if not Followed by Influence?

We are posting. Posing & Pouring.

Heart us, and we will crown you good boy,

and give you more of what you look to us for.

You want to open the door.

You want to buy us a drink.

You want us to walk across a puddle on your back.

Because what would you do without beauty?

We are dangerous in our soft

demanding in our bat-eyes.

You have nothing to fear

If you shut up and listen

If you cross your legs and sit on them

If you realize the ultimate majesty of women 

all of us who don’t love you as much as we love each other.


There is something stopping me. A cork lodged sideways in Sauvignon, I feel like I am eighteen again, prying that pressed bark from dark glass with a fork. Using every object but the real thing to remove the blockage. Like my young hands leveraging the fork, I try to find substitutes.

Yoga in the morning, reading again from the Charlotte Bronte novel I can only digest piece by piece, long sips of coffee, pulling the caffeine behind my eyes, bus rides to unseen corners of the city. All these forks I try, but I am a firm believer in not forcing myself.

I never want to feel writing as that proverbial monkey, and I don’t want the comfort of losing myself in lyric to slip from my grasp. But as with any love, roadblocks in my writing deserve attention. This is the labor of love.

I can talk the circumference of a million circles new and exciting, but I can’t quite calculate the heart.

I am in a new city, yes, but what new stone hasn’t been overturned somewhere else? To take a page from the eternal Bronte, I’ll address you, fair reader, and ask selfishly, what should I do?

Do you want more flowery drawings of nature? Recitations of journies sat on bus seats, rides on new metro systems? Imagined stories I derive from ancient paint? A ranking of the best places to place my high-maintenance coffee order?

Maybe. But right now, my pen cannot ink those words in a new way.
I want to return to these light-hearted topics, to revel in the beauty of the simplest moments I find in each day, but right now, I do not know how. Whether it is a classic case of burnout, a symptom of the sputtering broken heart that started my Summer, or a touch of that delightful writers’ block all us creatives experience, it doesn’t really matter. I need a purge.

I need to cleanse myself of all the little pieces and poems that are choking my bottleneck. So here is the cork, the pieces I am spitting out slowly, the pressed oak I’ve dismissed in previous posts and I am finally coughing from my throat.

The Three-Year-Old Paper Clip I Keep On My Pocket

something so small it becomes a feeling
something your eyes learn to ignore
unnecessary information, unworthy of sight
until it’s gone.
it’s the opposite of an aberration,
whatever this is,
but just as eerie when it leaves.
I can feel myself growing more abstract
each day I spend in my own world.
one day I’ll be modern art,
that red square
selling for millions to millionaires
who purse their lips and whisper to each other,
“do you get it?”
“I do.”
they lie,
their gold bracelet wrists bend under sculpted jaw,
and they nod because they think there is a point.
but what makes art but the lack of words to describe what we feel.
we fill in these gaps,
hoping some arrangement of letters or colors will unlock meaning
like magic.
what if my art is just this filler?
will you need magic to understand me?
I’m not hard,
not expensive.
I’m as simple as a toddler paperclip,
bent and flexed around a flap of denim.
the denim is not important; none of this is,
but it’s the piece of silver that makes it worth it.
the glint of metal that makes it mine,
so special in the way it sits, ordinary.
arms in shallow spread,
reaching to hold onto something important.

Growing Pains

I miss the morning moments,
when my body grew different each day.
Time spent discovering the curves to my edges,
realizing what my body could do,
where it could stretch,
how it could bend,
learning the limits to my bones and
how they snapped as I broke myself
over a crack in the concrete.
Now I only grow inside.
New synapses accentuate the curves of my brain.
Knowing my body and teaching it to others,
I learn what their bodies say and what they mean
breaking my insides
over the cracks in their promises.


Do I write for the love of watching
my own ink line the page?
Do I love the control of curling each letter,
a tendril of intention?
Is it that I want to see
my words stick to each other,
cursive delicacies I gift myself?
This self-indulgence in letters that breeds
pride in violating their classroom rules.
Am I addicted to the smile that clicks ignore
on red underlines?
All this is more modest
than screaming my name in a crowd,
but hardly humble.
How can I feign humility
on the sanctity of the open page as I
grip it, host myself spilling forth,
and ask you
read this.

Here is the Truth

One month of stamina burned through
everything I ever wanted,
but I am still here. And
I am paranoid,
for the first time in ages.
I think about him constantly
& drink about him often
all over again,
after weeks of solace.
What if I just drown myself
in Red Wine and Aperol
rather than sun & steps forward?
I think I hear Rush on the loudspeaker,
but to be honest, I hear my own voice louder.
Asking if I can just let myself drink
until my lips choose another’s
over another glass of wine
& maybe if I were younger, I would.
Or if it wasn’t just me,
a world away & alone,
perhaps I could give in and not sit
solitary & sober.
What glory of stupid youth this would be,
to go to the same Mexican restaurant
across from my Austrian apartment
& order €2.50 drinks all night
until all I know is walking home.

The Same Words I Hear In My Head Each Time I Walk Outside

Listen to the timeless symphonies of leaves on leaves
See how bark liters the same space
where sprouts reach their green heads from hours of shade
Or watch the soft plummet of curled brown arms
as they break from steam
These are the lyrics, the only real ones
Silver circles signal away birds from their garden
Blinding my eyes with each turn of the wind
How slow can we break from ourselves
How many times can we break from blindness and return to it
Forsake our own cycles for this natural reverence
and curl back like fetal flesh into ourselves
each morning

The man with the pink cast looks over his lashes through the window

& at first I was offended.
Another male figure taking the liberty
of a perfect view of me,
sat up & prettily in the sun,
eyes tracing pages and lines.
Now, caught in glance myself,
I can’t help but sit straighter.
Easy voyeur, performing myself for him,
smile curling with my pages,
slowing my throat as I sip my coffee,
eyes caught on his in earnest.

Land of the free man & home of big britches.

these stomachs stretching
50 buttons til they pop
some strained more than others
plastic flying one by one
while some hold on by white thread
fortified by the twisted integrity
of a population who defines the word differently

its time for new clothing
whoever said classic doesn’t go out of style
was lying to cover a country with bleach
so all would ignore the big eyesore
the oozing from the same ignorant sores, from the
elbow, where all come together,
resting against its own skin
unable to see how it rubs itself raw

When I Was Afraid of Spiders

my spine crawled at the sight
eight legs pin pricking points along my back
a myriad of eyes sparkling into mine
toes curled at this contact.
Now arachnidan figures hanging loose
from tented ceiling don’t shake me.
Instead, my eyes close and rest easy,
spine riddled rather by the harsh reality
of the rest of this sleeping-bagged world.

Where are we Ourselves?

I am most myself in a crowd
If I fall, here, it is real.
There are eyes to see and mouths to laugh
as mine do,
at every folly. But
there are two beings inside of me.
There is Caroline,
made & maintained
by all those who see her.
She is beautiful & happy
red-faced & laughing.
Then there is me,
and I have no name.
I am just a something,
something that comes from inside.
I stare with Caroline’s face
& debate the center of being.
Am I her brain?
All her intrusive and intrinsic thoughts?
Or am I in the face?
The identifying cue to her name
that feels different each time it burns into our retinas.
Or is that just it? Am I her eyes?
Trapped in these green iris depths,
at the glittering point of our envisioned world.

Red Wine Lips

I want to lick hers, over there
or his, just the same
red & dripping- fresh & warm- flesh & wanting.
Do you think they would mind?
If I drowned in cherry & took the headache like a pill,
blue first, then swallowing the oxidized color
choking on the glass.
Do you think they would care?
If red passed between us, like a secret.
If we looked the same
& the slices were just stomped grapes
sinking into the anemic feeling
sinking into the barrel, aging.
Could you tell the difference between us,
if you only saw us from inside
pressed and trampled fruit.
I’ll blow smoke over us,
if she is me & him & I watch all of us,
there, with flowing hair & drenched trousers.
Can you tell which exhale is warm air,
and which is air burning?
Can you tell who I am?
Like a fallen apple, but those can be green too.
Ripe & ready to be juiced,
I am all the colors in between.

Just Because You Mean What You Say Doesn’t Mean You Are Telling The Truth

Bristle pulls through the gold that hangs
in tangles from my head.
Start from the bottom,
we all know this, it hurts less,
& work your way to the scalp.
Tease the strands into straight lines
like straight foreplay &
with a quick flick from the same stroke over & over
see how the ends omit a faint mist-
a second shower,
this one for dust
as it falls to the floor.
I wish I could live there,
be a single strand floating
in the post-soap soft cloud where all is
washed & not red, scrubbed & not raw.
I want to glow from places other than my hair.
From that empty hall inside,
the space I must gargle and rinse out of me
with salt.
Spitting out its pieces like the second mist
of spring snow.


when we assaulted my childhood bathroom
my father and I armed ourselves
with hammers and saws and sandpaper
first we stripped paint from the walls
layer after layer
we peeled pink after purple
and took back the yellow I asked for years ago.
I grabbed hammer in the iron-clad grip children seem to possess
& wrecked havoc
broke walls into their naked beauty,
smashed through the second door that made everything too small
all while my father sawed in half
the tub we could never bleach white enough
and from the empty space I pulled
powder and nails before we paused
looked upon a paper cup with plastic straw
preserved by working hands in the hallow walls of the room
long before I was built


climbing over you is nothing
but building a wall backward
taking plaster from planks
pulling on that pink cotton candy
that’s where you are,
you are the fleshy fiberglass
sparkling at me with your supposed soft
that cuts each hand
reaching for your false pink.

One Year.

After nearly a year of forgoing caution and letting baggage float away in soft waves, dropping the heaviest from BA passenger planes over the Atlantic, my whirlwind love has been severed. In the following collection, my heart beats in erratic morose code and bleeds fresh and fragrant with the unbridled flood that flows from first real love. Some written at the precipice, the peak, the fall, and all riddled with the fire I felt burning and tied myself to until all that was left was smoke and bone. Here lay the pieces, and I hope you enjoy picking them up.


Waking up without you is like chewing gum instead of brushing your teeth.


it was nothing at first

sat across from me on the patio

nursing a cigarette and

it makes my head spin now but then 

I didn’t even notice how much I was paying attention

how much I liked the way his lips tugged and his eyes softened

as he took each drag from his cigarette 

Grecian Aubade.

5 am, I wake to a rustling.

Hasty hands scrambling in the bunks below.

7 am, I feel salt under my brows,

under my eyelids, 

saltwater washes over new bodies.

You, next to me, consumed me 

like the waves that stripped us raw.

3 am last night, friends made mistakes

as we played out our own transgressions,

but I feel more than Catholic guilt this morning.

By 9 am, you wake,

we kiss because we’ve kissed before.

When you leave me in bed,

it’s to come back with bottles of water, 

the object of my throbbing head’s greatest desire. 

10 am is too long 

I tell you, I have to go.

11 am sees you cross the abyss, 

between dock and deck,

five hours late to meet your friends.

They are there, but not waiting, 

right there 

at the harbor.

The next 11 greets me above your name.

Your voice streaming tears down the screen–

you meant everything the night before. 

I cry too, I don’t know who for,

but a tear falls from my cheek,

as I whisper to you.

I love you too.

never have i been so sure.

i don’t understand how i am sitting here, 

a pillar of sparks

lit up by nothing more than the heart that beats inside a boy 

a million miles away,

and im not scared.

Not in any real way. 

I am terrified, 

of the feelings i have and the daydreams that circle my mind.

I am frightened,

By the way, my heart jumps when i see his name and pounds when i see his face.

But i am not scared. 

Not of him. Not of me. 

For some strange reason

When i close my eyes- When i think of the reality of him,

I feel safe. 


You are everywhere, walking in whispered visions through my mind.

Your name written in mine like we’ve been written together before.

You wear black on black every day like what I wanted all along was simply, you. 

You add Amy to the playlist you make me and I cant help the goosebumps that line my skin everywhere 

I want you to touch me and 

I want you to touch me everywhere.

& you say

I’m written in the chant of your favorite team.

My hair, falling down my shoulders the color that caught your eye.

My nose ring you notice and my lips you want to kiss. 

I make you nervous, as you mix your drinks and tell me my spiderman shirt is sexy

& i like that.


I fall through sheets 

Silky and soft around my figure 

When my name falls from your lips

When your voice touches my ear

With the hint of your touch

Cities of nerve endings erupt

Down my spine, faltering my breath, quivering my skin

I want your hands on my hands and

Your breath in my lungs

Your taste on my tongue, I want the

Yellow sun that lights our skin 

to immortalize you in my eyes.


How am i supposed to tell my friends that we screamed i love you.

I love you. 

I love you to each other. 

I  love you between waves.

I love you all night.


Few and far between are the moments of absolute clarity.

Those sparks that illuminate who you have been all along. 

Fleeting knowledge- a diary burning quickly in the dark of my heart.

I Fear You Love the Romance of Me. 

With your arms, embrace

my shaking corpse and chase

your blazing yearning from my body.

I want this branding kiss on my forehead,

to feel flaming fingertips as you slip,

down my flickering wick 

until I can’t belittle the power 

of your finger.

I, the instrument you play and tune

With eyes- soft when they strike.

Fingers- careful when they pluck. 

You never burn through.

I love the way your rough hands cover me

and I fear 

I love the danger of you. 

ENG 101.

Im trying to bite my tongue 

as I sit in a class I’ve outgrown, but

Id rather it be your teeth on my flesh

pressed against my mouth to stop my voice.

Id rather it be your hand on my neck

latching onto my throat,

Than the tight grip of the clock 

as it ticks the time between us.

Victorian Love Affair.

his thumb traces my lip like a secret;

the taste sweet and sultry and sleazy.

he glares at me with eyes sharp and piquant. 

he bares his teeth to diamonds, greedy.

I am too modest to love with all he desires,

though cold and stuffy in his supposed nature. 

our tempers kiss with lips of raging fires. 

toeing the line of passionate anger. 

with corset tight- taught enough to collapse a lung;

I still see us written in the stars like a zodiac. 

rich and pompous with his reckless tongue;

swiftly speaking, the ribbons off my back

and now there is nothing left but him

as we tear each other limb from limb.


Just like the waves rolling over our weightless bodies,

There is a soft peace reflected in your eyes

Your pupils, dilated just enough that I can see

Windows to worlds where we are infinite 

always running, but never away

you play me like an instrument

tuning me with your touch

Our footsteps pounding the pavement

A metronome

keeping tempo as I get lost in colored iris

So much depends upon my smile.

You hold yourself responsible 

for any twitch that curls my grin

and for finding peeking pearly whites 

under these lips you part as the sea.

So much depends, yet

as with anything holy, 

you hate being held responsible 

for the tremors 

that tremble these same lips apart.

So much depends, so 

through silver lens, I hide

tearful reflections 

from sparkling their presence

upon my cheek. 

So much depends, still

I am powerless to hide

the quiver-

holding taught all arrows

behind mute lips. 

So much depends for you, 

my amenable God, in

seeking my eternal providence. 

Taking my silicone path of least resistance,

with white knuckle grip on the short leash that snaps,

upon my smile.


I miss you. I think it is time. Maybe. I think it is. 

Confessions, you watch my body and imagine you know my soul.

Never doubt my fondness of your happiness, nor my devotion to my own. 

Too many words crowd my tongue 

as I speak of you. 


These syllables fall 

flat against the open pale palms 

you reach to my lips.

All these worries  

Silenced with touch & Raised with a look. 

All parting lips licked 

in perfect harmony. 

Sweet sweat drips from our temples 

drip-drip- dripping from the sun,

combining on the tongues

of bleach blonde brunettes below.

Shape me into an object of Permanence.

I am writing you out of me, but

the only one who could change a name was you.

Acceptance is self-love,

blaming bruises left of lust 

as they mark the way my eyes meet my own.

I am more beautiful in ruin,

no tension clouding my features,

no pressing or impressing anymore, just gravity inflicting it’s slack truth.

You couldn’t take too much.

It was all too much.

Still, I remain sickly grateful that once,

your lust was enough to fuel the rest. Enough

to move your hands

to make love to clay

to mold an object with permanence

Public Transportation.

With a gold band that binds stone to skin, I imagine I am tying 

you to me. 

Under any gold glow, we see the best version of the truth — 

and assume all is revealed with the sunlight, 

bouncing from edge to edge, 

crystallizing uncorrupted purple.

I can’t help thinking about you in train cars. 

You, the same way I can’t avoid the ring of blue around my heart.

The very same shade that lights 

my finger under the fluorescents of the underground.

And here it is again– this CTA blue, 

so strong the chlorine color prickles your nose 

just as your eyes meet the acrylic blue-bottomed pool.

Why is it in transit that we chose cheap blues,

sparkling away from noble purple, 

under artificial light.


Where is your smile? 

Where are your teeth? 

Did you eat them while you were waiting?

Did they crunch different from my flesh?

Did they crumble as you did as they were broken by your lips?

Did their cigarette-flavored bleach burst on your tongue?

Did they taste as poisonous as your words?

Did they slice your gums and gnaw on raw pink?

Do you ever think about these incisions?

How they came from you and consumed you,

while I, powerless, watched.

The Knowing.

To know someone is to accept an anger born from understanding their trespasses.


To know someone is to hate everything else.


Today we dared each other to say something, but it could have been all in my head.

To Date A Man. 

They come in every shape.

Tall & always falling short.

Big & suffocating with skinny arms.

Fast & Slow with Fingers & Minds.

Trading types with the twist of their tongues that

say this,

say that,

say anything

they think will unlock you. 

Like all humans, men are self-conscious,

staring daggers into your most intimate corners.

Hilt forward,

the tip breaks their skin. 

Watch how he bleeds for you. 

Watch & clean up the mess,

he shouldn’t have to ask, it’s for you. 

So many men & so many games,

how am I supposed to remember a name?

This question I ask 

until I wish I could forget. 

Men are easy 

until you find a good one. Then you

Say this & that & anything & falling over

the dull point of your own blade

to keep his eyes open. 

Cutting hair & ties just

to keep him calling your name. 

But what you forget is we are all the same. 

Distract him, 

he falls,

he is warm putty in warmer hands

until he remembers he is 


We are all broken,

but he thought you were meant to fix him.

Writers Block. 

I have not written this version of you in lyric,

saving your absence from becoming real

from being past & not present,

this hurt

 because we no longer walk the future.


your vacancy in me must hover

must keep its pulse


away, but not a ways away,

just close enough to feel your fingerprint

even if I can’t feel your finger. 


Like a pen with half its ink,

I am splintering,

lost & tired & running out.

I am so many things.

A child.

A woman.

A free spirit.

I’ve been so many things to you.

For you.

A lover, a consoler, a daydream, an idea.

How can all these things mourn you?

I dream of the space you used to fill,

I can’t afford it anymore,

only you can curl my limbs in that direction.

My body has writhed and twisted and lied,

but only yearned for you.

You are too easy to replace,

too hard to replicate.

I’m not drunk enough to touch you,

though you still live just behind my eyes.

There, you ruin me.

Thank god I’m too strong to be ruined.

Toppel my tower,

and my stone will still see the sun.


I need a new side of the sun to glaze over 

my eyelids in the morning.

I thought different lips would make me cry, 

but they are just different.

Pillowed skin powerless to change me,

only yours could do that. 

Yours showed me new parts of myself,

other sides,

other suns.

Different lips don’t make me miss you more,

you are chronic.

Different lips are just different;

different from me so I am not alone,

different from you so I am not changed.

I need a new part, a new place, a new sun.

But what if like lips,

different suns cannot change me. 

The Truth.

Static cling to the thought

of you.

Just static. 

You pull apart easy,

as I fling you into a different corner,

hoping to hide you for longer

among the dust. 

While I was honest.

you gave me half-truths,

devotion with a half-life.

I knew, even as I signed myself over to you.

I knew, so I am okay 

in the aftermath I saw coming.

I knew you couldn’t hold on forever,

but I would still choose to dream with you.


John Donne Thesis Collection

The Flea

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,   

How little that which thou deniest me is;   

It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;   

Thou know’st that this cannot be said

A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,

Yet this enjoys before it woo,

And pampered swells with one blood made of two,

And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, nay more than married are.   

This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;   

Though parents grudge, and you, w’are met,   

And cloistered in these living walls of jet.

Though use make you apt to kill me,

Let not to that, self-murder added be,

And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since

Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?   

Wherein could this flea guilty be,

Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?   

Yet thou triumph’st, and say’st that thou   

Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;

’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:

Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me,

Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.

Your Fool

How easily I am swept away,

though to you, I fear, this is only a game. 

You, dripping with sugar and sweetness

render my virtuous lips speechless. 

Your words playing with love do curl 

my innocent thoughts, like a little girl.

I know you think me a fool,

but I can’t tell if you are simply cruel. 

A conniving, salacious, and thieving tool. 

My dress falls away with the caress of your fingers,

swift and expert, though their touch lingers.

I sparkle and dance with illustrious fire,

as long as you tell me I’m your only desire. 

Promise you’ll stay even after you’ve had me,

and declare that forever, I’ll be your greatest victory. 

Perhaps it’s always been me, the fool

drowning my affection in your vivacious pool,

where your words betray reason, painting me beautiful.

I feel I must go along with you,

testing the waters to see if you prove true.

With your talk of fleas and blood combining, 

it is clear to see how hard you are trying.

Though it is true you license my worst desires,

I fear that too quickly, of me, you’ll tire. 

Departing and leaving me empty so soon,

my face red and puffy, I’ll cry to the moon-

for some starry escape from our coming doom. 

Woman’s Consistency

Now thou has loved me one whole day,

Tomorrow when you leav’st, what wilt thou say?

Wilt thou then antedate some new-made vow?

            Or say that now

We are not just those persons which we were?

Or, that oaths made in reverential fear

Of Love, and his wrath, any may forswear?

Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,

So lovers’ contracts, images of those,

Bind but till sleep, death’s image, them unloose?

            Or, your own end to justify,

For having purposed change and falsehood, you

Can have no way but falsehood to be true?

Vain lunatic, against these ‘scapes I could

            Dispute and conquer, if I would,

            Which I abstain to do,

For by tomorrow, I may think so too.

Man’s Consistency

That first night you swore, you would never leave.

Each day with you, i grew more willing to believe.

The fruits of your labors you tied ‘round my wrist,

all diamonds and tokens i couldn’t resist.

Yet in reflections of crystal,

I met only my own eyes- vacant

distractions in shallow pools of green.

Quickly forgiving your absence, rather calling you sweet.

Victory is yours, if it’s victory you desire,

Cloud my pretty mind with pretty things, and your sins are forgiven-

Yet never forgotten, for you are forever indiscreet.

Too soon you leave again, 

and I weep for affection or glitter in vain.

Not long after leaving, you’ve forgotten my name.

Tracing fingers down her back like our love is a game. 

It took me a while, but now it is plain,

you love like the moon- both with wax and with wane. 

Holy Sonnet X

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.

Thou’art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy’or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Holy Sonnet Xb

Life be not proud, though some who seek her are 

With chest plump and head held high

They speak as though they reach the sky

Above the others, they maim and scar

And think it nothing but simple spar

When life strikes down those unkind

Who seek her image through another’s eye

Thinking envy is everything, reaching for the wrong star

Slaves to chance yet bound to expectation

The prideful flounder, never tasting life’s flavors

Desiring depth without toil in life’s lasting labors

For high horses need blinders for quick evasion

With winding roads everchanging and hard

Life cannot be conquered, however prideful you are.

The Prohibition 

           Take heed of loving me ;

At least remember, I forbade it thee ;

Not that I shall repair my unthrifty waste

Of breath and blood, upon thy sighs and tears,

By being to thee then what to me thou wast ;

But so great joy our life at once outwears.

Then, lest thy love by my death frustrate be,

If thou love me, take heed of loving me.

            Take heed of hating me,

Or too much triumph in the victory ;

Not that I shall be mine own officer,

And hate with hate again retaliate ;

But thou wilt lose the style of conqueror,

If I, thy conquest, perish by thy hate.

Then, lest my being nothing lessen thee,

If thou hate me, take heed of hating me.

            Yet love and hate me too ;

So these extremes shall ne’er their office do ;

Love me, that I may die the gentler way ;

Hate me, because thy love’s too great for me ;

Or let these two, themselves, not me, decay ;

So shall I live thy stage, not triumph be.

Lest thou thy love and hate, and me undo,

O let me live, yet love and hate me too.

The Drink

I hover and hesitate, before loving you,

for I can never wholly believe you are true.

In this way if you prove false

and tear away from my heart,

no blood will drain or slow my pulse.

For I never begged to be your sweetheart. 

After all my walls that you blew,

I’ll never surrender everything to you.

I can never seem to hate you.

After all, there is nothing you ask me to do,

but love and cherish every day.

It seems all others cannot contend

with the sugar that drips from each word you say;

Forming promises of love around each bend.

if you will truly stay and follow through,

Then nothing fearful I will do.

In stopping you from the leave of me,

I never could but let you be. 

For if you truly wish to depart,

I’ll have no grand declarations to entreat.

But I’ll ask you once if it is smart,

for gaining my love is quite a feat.

Tides of love come and go,

as I hover and hesitate in feeling,

you wash over me.

Elegy 8: To His Mistress Going to Bed

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,

Until I labour, I in labour lie.

The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,

Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.

Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,

But a far fairer world encompassing.

Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,

That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.

Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime,

Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.

Off with that happy busk, which I envy,

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.

Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,

As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals.

Off with that wiry Coronet and shew

The hairy Diadem which on you doth grow:

Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread

In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.

In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be

Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee

A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though

Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,

By this these Angels from an evil sprite,

Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

    Licence my roving hands, and let them go,

Before, behind, between, above, below.

O my America! my new-found-land,

My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,

My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,

How blest am I in this discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.

    Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,

As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be,

To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use

Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views,

That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a Gem,

His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.

Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made

For lay-men, are all women thus array’d;

Themselves are mystic books, which only we

(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)

Must see reveal’d. Then since that I may know;

As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew

Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,

There is no penance due to innocence.

    To teach thee, I am naked first; why then

What needst thou have more covering than a man.

I, the mistress in your bed

Master and Mistress we play this game,

fantasies and fancies never twice the same.

You- with those green glittering eyes,

take sight of me without disguise.

Boldly beckoning to me in bed, 

my lips protest- you come to me instead.

You told me once I’ve never said no.

It’s true, with you, I’ve never been slow.

Just touch me and my bells chime,

for it is you I want every time.

Your eyes are guilty of holding me captive, 

they’re all I see while the rest of you is active.

I, my master in my own dress,

you own once I undress. 

At times I wonder

how you got me under

your thumb and your whims, 

ever controlling the will of my limbs. 

One moment I’m my own, but not in the next.

for I am your mistress, forever lost in your hex.

For every ounce of my trust, 

I gift with pleasure to your violent lust.

Flip my master room to your playground,

you take the role of master now. 

There you are walking, fingering the hem,

while I fall like a flower in need of steam.

My petals-for minutes- have layed on the floor.

Still you move so slowly with all I adore. 

Face softening- hardening- in view of me.

I go where ever you will be.

My country and my body, 

you grasp and embody.

Your newfound land,

mountains and curves only you understand. 

Trace me now and with your fingers

real touch, at last, I feel how it lingers.

Time and time again am i undone,

but by the end, it’s me who has won. 

For you rest in my bed, all through the night;

and each morning it’s only me you bite.

These echoing halls recite our laughter

even after

you have seen me all,

love and lust endure and enthrall.

Master or Mistress, it does not matter,

all discarded clothes are equal in tatter.

The truth is we are both to blame,

our lust a beast we’ll never tame.