My mouth is made of clay
For you to mold with your
Lips. Your tongue. Your teeth.
My skin is made of wood,
Carved out with
Each caress, your fingers
Sharper than any blade.
Blood vessels exploding,
Just beyond my pores.
Bruises are easier
Than a broken heart.

Romanticizing things that hurt =/= Loving me

Stop comparing me to

An addiction.

I do not need you to fix me.

I did not ask you to save me,   

And surprisingly enough it hurts

To hear you say I am like a

Disease that hollows your bones,

The “perfect drug”? Bullshit.

So hide my track mark hickies, and

Bandage your bloody fingers if

Holding me was like repairing

Broken glass.

Stop comparing me to

An addiction

Because when was the last time

An addiction

Quit you?



Read More


Us three, we came from the same ocean,

From the same cradle,

Suckling the same nectar,

Clutching the same long dresses,

White knuckled and accustomed

to the scent of cigarettes.

We came from the same blue house,

The same crumbling walls.

I call her children nephews.

Why is it so hard to get out

The words, “I love you”?

Our bodies are two different recipes

But they still shares half the ingredients.

Sometimes I’ll slice open my skin,

Ripping apart my veins like a question,

“Why didn’t you fight for me,

Is my blood so different from theirs?”

I haven’t heard your voice in two months,

They have.

I think I’ve forgotten what you sound like,

They haven’t.

And I think you like it that way. 

The first person I convinced
Myself I loved.
Was so honest, that her skin
Resembled stone, for soft flesh
Would be lying about the bone within. 
The first person I convinced
Myself I loved
Was simply the only person
Who looked at me like I was a person. 
She was so honest 
I almost believed her when she told me
I was beautiful. 
I held her hand in the dark
And made excuses to let go when the lights were on. 
She was so honest,
She was so fucking honest
That it hurt to kiss her sandpaper lips,
Her tongue was made of shattered glass 
That cut me whenever she spoke. 
She was honest to the point
My body ached from holding her 
The first person I convinced
Myself I loved
I didn’t love at all. 
She was the mouthwash 
I was the cavity. 
I was a ghost and she was a statue. 
Her skin was stone and I was a sledge hammer.
I was a fleeting rain storm that 
Eroded a mountain. 
I was, I am 

How Can I Write a Poem for Someone I Haven’t Even Met?


I want to count

The freckles lining

The curvature of your


I want you to taste

Your name on my breath

Through the warmth

Of my lips on your lips.

I want to lace our fingers

Like a ribbon on a gift.

I want to love

And be loved

And I want to count

Every minute until

You break my


Dreamed of you and wrote about it

Mathematicians could calculate

The slope of my neck when it arches

As I scream out your name like a prayer

On bated breaths to the stillness that composes

The universe whenever I am alone with you.

And chemists could tell me the exact

Set of reactions and chemicals that get

Released in my bloodstream when you run

Your fingers run through my hair, cascading down

Until you’ve traced the entirety of my spine,

Making every bone in my body quake.

And profits could preach that whatever god

There is made us for each other but when I look

At you I don’t see calculations or solutions or

Some theological, philosophical bullshit quandary.

When I look into your eyes, the flecks that reside

In your irises, when I look into your face and the

Freckles and pot marks that define your complexion

The thing I see is your arms to return to, the only thing

I see is the shining light of your smile in the darkness,

The only thing I see is the feeling of being home when

We are meshed together like puzzle pieces put together

To complete us. The only thing I see when I look at you

Is love.  


I pumped my veins

With opiates and thoughts of you

For the first time

As a means to try and die.

But it seems that this artificial

Happiness was too good for me

To give up.

So I keep on living to taint my blood

With warmth and a blurred reality.

It’s like unhooking my brain

From the anchor of my spinal chord

So that my nerves can sigh in

Bated breaths that one more day

Is worth it just to





Cut me a line, 
But save the one-liners. 
I didn’t come here to talk to you. 
Thousands of ants 
Crawl beneath and between 
My skin and our lips, I can’t stand this itch. 
Each insect has a name from the piece of our pasts 
That compelled us to find the happiness we were denied 
By means of back-ally, drive-by, cum-quick-so-I-can-buy my highs. 
My body will be leaking 
By the time this is over. Skin 
Dripping with regret, blood, and you.

So happy I could die

I want your tongue to taste my

Blood and the pain that lingers

Between the white and red cells.

I want your hands around my neck,

For your lust to turn my skin blue.

I want to replace breathing with

Gasps and sweet moaning.

And on my gravestone

They can quote Bukowski,

Because I will have found what I loved

And I will have let it kill me.