i must be dreaming

You know… I was asked pretty recently about something… something that broke my tiny heart… something that answered more than a few unanswered questions about myself. She asked me, have you ever thought about writing something other than love poems? And I thought: what exactly is fucking going on inside of my head? why is my heart only overflowing with love poems? And I thought… well, it’s because if I wrote about the moon, its craters will have been the asteroids we wished upon crashing landing into a broken promise that couldn’t come true. It’s because if I wrote about a vegetable, it’s just another flower that didn’t get appreciated enough because we were spoon fed these airplanes as kids and we never learned how to care for one another like how our parents would break every star if it meant we’d live to smile like our lives could never break and they’ll remind us… stars, they breathe heavy sleek hues of I’ll shine for you as long as you’re here and you look up… each comet is a vein you punctured while trying to love yourself with needles and pens. It’s because if I wrote about the cold and lonely tile ground, it’s the blood we spilled while trying to love our cuts from when we handed our hearts out as fliers of have you seen my lover? I miss her. I miss him. I miss them. If you find them, tell them to call me. Ask them to kiss me goodnight. Ask them to come back to me. Ask them, do you still love me? It’s because if I wrote about a paper towel, the moment we spilled that time-kissed photograph of a cup onto the ground as ripped memories and hated desires… the way the coffee landed on the floor and nobody heard when you cried alone and no one was there except for that paper towel… your only thought, thanks for helping me get my shit together. It’s because if I wrote about shampoo, its a memory of when I used your compliments as a mental wake up call that hey, I have someone good for me– why am I hurting this person… someone who loves me for me, why do I do such things? I haven’t the slightest fucking clue and baby, I’m still hurting over you. It’s because if I wrote about mountains, your shoulders were cliffs and my tears they had a warrant for yours– and I cuffed them to the branches from when the golden apple fell too far and baby, I’m still holding my hands wrestling with dreams of when I could’ve been a better man, for you, for you, for you. It’s because if I wrote about the ocean, your emptiness is profoundly unique because unlike me– you’ve dumped into the sea, you’ve bled into the creek, you’ve died inside of the river, you’ve jumped into a lake, you’ve seen reflections of hearts never coming home to imprint dirty marks all around the house inside of a muddy puddle, you’ve lied to the swamp because my crocodile tears aren’t like yours and my alligators– I’ve swallowed enough pills to make my own pharmacy out of my vomit and I’ve laid there sweating thinking about when I’ll get better, when is that again? It’s because if I wrote about her– it’ll always be something you can’t have. The way her smile bends because she’s afraid… what if I hurt her too? It’s because if I wrote about you– it’ll be another attempt to thumb wrestle with our childhood memories about finding lovers who will stay, who will love and who won’t hurt us the way we’ve been hurt before…

One, two, three, four,
I declare a thumb war…
One, two, three, four,
you’re someone I’ll always adore…
One, two, three, four,
sometimes, I wish I could be more…
One, two, three, four,
your heart, baby, it’s on the floor…

Bleeding, so please–

Take me somewhere no one will hear me

screaming

Love me somewhere that’s numb to

breaking

Hold me tonight and use my lips for

kissing

Kiss me hard before you go

missing

Write to me like my heart is only for your

taking–

You know… The question messed me up because no matter what I write about…

Love.

It has to.

It has to be.
It has to be for.
It has to be for me.

Love.

It’s all I have for this cruel and broken place–

You cry and cry and cry.

Because baby… there's–

people crying every night.

I stole that from a song because it’s my favorite little verse from sadness that sounded so pure and I remembered the time when–


you planted these seeds into my veins…
and darling, for all of you–

I still bleed roses when I write these