arms and legs

We are tired.

We are tired.

I feel like heart-shaped candy

And the thread between a first and last kiss.

I feel like thinning space

And time doubled over.

I feel like never feeding purpose again

And leaving the stars to their solitary confinement.

I feel like chewing gum

And suppressing hunger

And suppressing feeling.

I don’t want my body

And all of its functions.

I don’t want to breathe anymore.

I don’t want to move.

I don’t want to love.

I just want to sleep

And catch the train that takes me.

I just want to sleep

And cry without quiver.

I just want to sleep

And let myself sink.

Oh, how I’d love to fall.

I just want to sleep.

To disappear

Without a trace.

I don’t want to occupy a single thought of another.

I don’t want any of this

Or that.

Everything collapse.

For I just want to sleep

And not exist.

I last saw you killing time and letting the blood in your head rush as you attempted to cherry-pick what crossed your mind.

Although I tried my very best to keep straight, and look forward, I couldn’t help but gravitate towards your oddity.

Women are powerful; some have options and options, windows and windows—they can pull you in and spit you out just as fast.

But I don’t mind.

I’ll swim in your pool of a thousand bachelors with a smile on my face.

There’s something about being manipulated that makes my skin settle and my heart melt.

Powerful women have the ability to tether themselves to the insecure and never let go.

She’s like a galaxy, and every man that has the pleasure to lay eyes is her celestial body.

She’s a queen, and every pawn is subject to strings and puppeteer work.

I have every chance to cut myself loose from sweet, sweet ribbon, but instead I curl it with friction and frustration.

I admire men who don’t put up with bullshit, but I refuse to envy them, because being used gives me an inexplicable comfort that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

I often play tapes about touch and tangibility, yearning for real connection, and I get sad when I hear lyrics that speak of two lovers who share, experience, and kindle love like a volatile fire.

I see through myself in front of mirrors and get ready for the day like an Austrian summer.

I rot away five days a week at the easiest job in the world, because all play and no work makes me a dull boy.

I lie in bed and thumb through my deepest desires like television, and play a memory in my head for a brief moment before I slap my wrist and change the channel.

It’s wrong to bury myself in dreams of singing to you from a stage, or hanging up a painting in your local art gallery, or writing a poem that says ‘I love you’ in a thousand different ways.

It’s wrong to look up at the moon and down at a shadow of a hand brushing up against mine.

It’s wrong to drink from a pool of thoughts contaminated with impossibility.

A stroke of the cheek, a kiss on the lips—

it all just kills me.

I dig myself deeper and deeper with silver shovels that sparkle and shine more and more the farther down I go.

I wish I could erase you like stray marks and misspelled words,

but no, you’ve written flawless poetry all over my heart with permanent marker,

and stabbed me with knives that only go deep enough to scar, but not to kill.

You keep me in this ring,

and I spin and I spin and I fucking spin—

all for you.

And when I fall, you yank me up, kiss my forehead like a dog, and throw me back in,

and I still wield scissors like a nuclear weapon,

because if I lose what I hate the most,

I’m still the loser.

I’m still the fucking loser.


a few

Love in the Year 2067

i’m afraid we’ve never met,

and i’m afraid we’ll never meet.

yes we’ve already met,

but did we really meet?

you’ve painted your nails,

and you’ve spoken your piece.

you’ve put on your dress,

you’ve given your speech.

i have yet to bloom—

to dress up, to room

with a roommate like you.

with a roommate like you.


grandma’s tears make me ill;

if i could write a piece that’d let her see with my eyes, i would.

because they’re dry,

and they don’t lose very often;

they bottle up anything and everything,

so when the gates open—they don’t rain, they don’t pour—

they flood anything and everything,

and push out every candle



they make it so i can see,

see without the water disguised as saline.

see without the wall of emotions,

see without the burning bosom/ the fuzzy feelings/ the chest pressure/

the falsities.


i couldn’t bear anymore weight,

i couldn’t let any more lies roll off my tongue.

so i stopped putting on my shirt,

my tie,

my dress shoes.

i stopped walking down the sidewalk,

stopped smelling the seasons,

stopped racking focus between tree branches and gradient skies.

i stopped sitting on cold metal, under dim, yellow lights.

i couldn’t stand the hypocrisy i’d exhibit every single week;

i dreaded it every minute.

in her’s and everyone else’s eyes,

i am sad



i will rot in hell,

wither away,

and fall endlessly.

i’ve killed every expectation, every handshake, every smile—

every cold, empty smile.

every envelope enveloped in gold, and attached to a pair of the meanest eyes i’ve ever seen.

i’m free but pissed off.

i’ve found my truth,

but truth doesn’t matter when it kills


and everything.

Pity Me

to bite down,

to grimace,

to cry,

and to destroy, all because of your many wasted opportunities, would be pointless.

life doesn’t sink its teeth into everyone.

some will go their whole lives without tasting sweet, sweet venom;

they’ll only know what it feels like to brush up against poison.

and some won’t even experience that.

after high school, some will never muster their favorite color or book ever again.

some will never love, and therefore, never get their heart broken.

some will hum the same tune their whole lives.

no pauses in the wind, no ripples in the water,

no disruptions, no disturbances

no alarms, no surprises,

just a straight line from the first breath to the last.

don’t you dare think a mere expression of frustration will turn any heads or draw any attention whatsoever, because nothing is certain, especially when you’ve been “dodging bullets” your entire life.

don’t you dare budge—not a tear, not a face, not a noise. go back to your safe, monotonous life where you belong, because you didn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything for six goddamn years, so how could you expect anyone to do anything but reciprocate?

it turns out that life just doesn’t sink its teeth into everyone.

some must chase after the rodent.

it’s diseased, harmful, and so hard to catch.

and to those who have had the pleasure of being attacked:


enjoy the shit coursing through your veins,

and the pleasure.

the circle-jerking high school experience was,


closed off. noninclusive.

not that i’m dying to be a part of an orgy—

i just wish i could get a chance at some meaningless sex

and some fake love.

love based on the shallowest of pools

on the most secluded island resort.

far far away.

because at least it’s


muscle strains

from working out for the wrong reasons.

i’ve been taking pictures of myself from all angles lately

every morning

to reassure myself that i look


dressing with minimality

no more bright colors

can’t express myself



eating the same thing for breakfast and lunch


keep quiet

no noise

contain laughter

no eye contact.

posting songs on my instagram story that either everyone knows or nobody knows;

that way i either stand out for not being afraid to like popular music

or just simply for being different

it doesn’t matter

i need to stand out.

i only post on my finsta nowadays

my followers are a mix of people i’ve never spoken to/barely spoken to/or never will speak to again

real friends.

where have you gone?

a sad song paired with a fake film filter will do it.

my artistic ambitions change everyday it seems

there’s no point in chasing anymore

it’s time to settle.

i picture myself in situations too unlikely to even dream of.

i see myself with women way out of my league,

friends way too cool for me,

and a life full of excitement

and contentment.

a life that,

if i were to die at any moment,

i’d be alright.

but no,

my emotions fluctuate way too often

and i’d be lucky to be buried with a smile.

these stupid songs in my playlist reflect memories that i long to create

not ones that i reminisce over.

there’s nothing left that’s worth remembering.

it all just hurts too much:

texts that i ignored

invites that i declined

dances that i didn’t go to

hands i didn’t hold

laughs i didn’t share

hair i didn’t run my fingers through as i lie in bed at night, happily exhausted,

closing my eyes comfortably,


ready for life

but more importantly,

ready for death.

regret after regret after regret

it’s too late to make amends

every move i make,

every word i say

gets shoved back down my throat

payback is sweet for those i’ve neglected.

an apology is out of the question for a coward like myself;

i have to subtly work my way back into their lives

through sarcasm/humor

and cheap conversation

and hinting.

i’m so fragile

so fragile.

i want i want i want

but i can’t have.


do you think about me?

please think about me


**mess 2

Would you kiss me if I noticed the collection of gold you strung around your neck this evening?

The series of ever so thin chains, blanketing one another with shimmer, nearly dissipating into your skin until they’re merely a mess of a mirage?

I love the way they hang unevenly down the valley of your unbuttoned pale yellow shirt.

The setting sun dances across the brown of your eyes, and your perfectly twisted smile puts me under a spell.

We lock hands, and my remaining fingers can’t help but pull at the grass, making groups of confetti like I used to in elementary school to subconsciously celebrate my slow approach to death.

You bring out the kid in me; you make me feel like time isn’t linear and youth never ends.

Your lips feel like roads less traveled by and differences that translate to lovely fever.

A soft breeze gathers up the flyaways of your hair for just an instant—and an instant is all you need to enamor.

You’re every aesthetically-charged daydream I’ve ever had wrapped into the most adorable laugh, wit sharper than knives, and sarcasm that makes my four chambers scream for touch.

Our shadows sway with trees and our silhouettes dance the tango in front of orange and yellow backgrounds.

I love you

I love you

I love you.


But even the finest of architecture cracks and crumbles.

Tonight we’re strong, but tomorrow we could already begin to collapse.

Our windows will start to crack, our floorboards to creak, and our walls to cave.

Your jewelry can only blind my eyes when there’s sun to reflect,

and we’re bound for dark clouds and heavy rain.

I fear commitment and mistaking infatuation for true love.

But maybe that’s what I want.

maybe I don’t want true love at all;

I just want rose tinted mirrors, constant reminders from my self that I’m O.K.

and new memories to replace old ones, so that when I lie in bed at night, I cry fresh water.

Enough to make a reservoir for my paper sailboats and shiny pennies,

and wishes.

Wishes that call out to my crib, my teddy bear, my goddamn pacifier…

A place for my regression, my entrapments, my innocence…

A girl to run in the opposite direction with,

back to the days where I didn’t fucking hate myself.

Run away.

Run away.

New Light – John Mayer

I Said – Litany

Butterflies – Kacey Musgraves

Apricot Princess – Rex Orange County

I’ll Come Too – James Blake

come out and play – Billie Eilish


Table for Two – Abel Korzeniowski

(Nice Dream) – Radiohead

Bubble Gum – Clairo











Dear ____________,

burneverylastword. forfiremaykill,butihopeforanafterlife. leavemeashandremnantsofdreams.

it’sjustthatican’tholdontoUanymore. youlivethroughmymusicandihatethat,butyou’retheonlywayicancaptureBittersweet..

and I love bitter sweet.

it’s why I prolong sleep, and shut my eyes to love songs,

because I like to orchestrate feelings and lock myself in mental prisons,

and wishfully give myself to you in pieces the size of dust,

hoping you’ll notice.


and I hate to admit it, but you were nothing but a part of an aesthetic I longed for.

I confused real love with an obsession to fit into frame,

to kiss you to a beat,

to be lit by a certain color palette.


I blame Hollywood for my desire to take you to prom,

to slow down time,

to put my hands on your waist,

and stare into perfectly straight, white teeth; lovely, high cheek bones; and my favorite eye color,

as we dance under consciously placed balloons and streamers, and a light so careful and calculated.


tear up the film, smash the camera, burn down the theatre;

this is not what I really want from you.


i want the real thing,

whether it’s perfectly spaced head room & every movement locked,

or asymmetry & imbalance,

an array of perfectly harmonizing colors,

or chaos & tangle,

a perfectly structured score,

or a disaster labeled as music,


i want you,

for you,

and you only.






Dear _____________,

Wallpaper falling apart, flowers howling like wolves, & my drowning apartment ^

Swimming in red roses & milk chocolate & a letter—this letter.

What could I say to a woman who’s heard it all?

A woman who’s memorized thousands of song lyrics,

a woman whose heart has already been cut like cake,

a woman who’s had multiplicities of men kick up leaves behind them as they drive off in their fancy cars, and leave her to cry between curtains.

These leaves never seem to die; they’re put to bed like little children, and the night only lasts so long.

You have a penchant for guys who wear their heart out on their sleeve.

I wish it were me; I hide my feelings behind dumb jokes & the shallowest of conversation.

I’ve made them laugh, but have they smiled?

Do I ever cross another’s mind the way that they cross mine?

Love is the most powerful force in the world: it speaks volumes on its own for many, but I can’t get past a goddamn paragraph before turning away.



Things have been different with you.

I don’t know if it’s because I lose myself in your smile, lull to the sound of your voice, or collapse before eyes the color of rain clouds.

When I’m with you, there’s music playing. Soft piano, hypnotic guitar, gorgeous bass, careful drums, and words,

words drawn from your mouth with the finest of ink.

You make me forget,

you make me feel,

you make me weak.

I could buy a dozen roses,

or a box of chocolates,

but my love for you is immaterial—

it’s beyond body,

above ground.

It’s as high as the clouds,

as bright as the sun,

as free as color.

As hot as fire,

as cold as stone,

still, like the night.


still, like the knight.

Things don’t shift here, this is a neighborhood of picket fences & perfectly trimmed shrubbery that sits behind a set of cast iron gates.

We’re comfortable, unbothered, and inattentive towards outsiders.

We prefer harmony w/ no hiccups.

Our love is as hopeless as Jack & Rose, Summer & Tom, Romeo & Juliet.

We pick up the knife before the threat,

the poison before woe.

The ship hasn’t even set sail,

but it’s sunken.

I know why the caged birds don’t bother to sing anymore.

It’s because the cage is soundproof,

and not even the loudest of expressions can be heard.