the first sadness


let you kiss everything that has died here

you ask me,

about cigarettes

and you worry about me leaving


put them out quickly

already smoked myself down to the filter

such a funny story

those summers and

how the sunlight puts me to sleep for so long


cry when it gets warmer

laid in bed all day

my whole world is falling, i told you


crying into your bed, the smell of aftershave

too much dog hair keeping me calm

I told myself I stopped using myself as an ashtray


wanted to tell you

about how my skin itched to feel

more than bruises

or your hands

the end of my cigarette

I’m scared of what will happen 

you want so badly to make me happy




I wanted to ask you what you were so scared of.
I wanted to tell you that yes, its okay to hold my hand.
I wanted to apologize for the lovers that came before me.
And for how they treated you.
I wanted to thank you for your nervous rambling.
For keeping your eyes open so late into the night.
Dear twenty hours.
I’m leaving the door unlocked.
I’m sorry I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You are everything I’m not asking for.

How are you so good at quieting these bones?

Apologies, Embers

(for the record, this is how I disappear
unhinge, un-know, unwrap myself from around the joy of you
this is every trailing thank you.
diaphanous, ethereal,mist
merely so much fog on glass
like so many other beautiful words
given to you instead of ‘I love you’
just meant to mean dissolving

(The thing about fire is that your hand is simply
nimble fingers outstretched smarter than your neurons can yield warning to
feels the radiant pulse of that danger
knows you are a body built of matchsticks and kindling
that the core of you is a wick
what you forget to say when you say that warmth is life
anything brought past its boiling point evaporates
that the sun could destroy the earth a hundred times over
but you’ll forget your body
cupping your hands around the kind of red that is an implicit warning
as you tremble
as you blister
She asks why you seem so cold
Why you hesitate
Well, why do you hesitate?
pulls your center towards her
doesn’t see the ignition
and here you are again
you stupid girl

This is just to say

This is just to say
Maybe I’m a sex addict, maybe
I’m bad in bed
Maybe I need a cigarette
And maybe you hate the way I bite my nails
Maybe I sing the body electric
Maybe you’re the broken one, yes
There, I said it
Because we’re all down here speaking our mother tongue
And all you hear is jagged hiccups,
You’re too old now they say
To learn a new language
Maybe I don’t want to be your friend
Maybe your hands make me act selfish
And ours will never be an entire conversation
Maybe we’ll never make eye contact
Or know each other in a year
This is just to say
Maybe we’re not okay
And maybe I don’t see anything wrong with it

Pertinent and other P words

What do you do before the conversation.
You assume, you infer, you build cities out of moments.
You build sandcastles with full knowledge of the ocean.
What do you do in the meantime. That mean mean time. After the first date but before one or the both of you chooses a direction.

If youre me you worry, mostly. And sigh dramatically. And do nonsensical things.
(And you regulate your emotional reactions)
You map out every possibility and charter a course, avoiding as many hard continents and disappointments as possible.
The terrifying part is turning to someone and saying ‘this is what I need from you in order to stay here’
Why is that always so hard for me to say?



verb \ˈrü-mə-ˌnāt\:

1) to think carefully and deeply about something

2) to bring up and chew again what has already been chewed and swallowed

‘No’ He wrote on my hand to stop me from starting.
I wrote again smaller, when I spilt my tea.
when I wrote the poem about the girl (and the girl and the girl, and the girl [every poem, it seems, is about a girl] while outside smoking)

Short poems.

On Falling in Love With Me
It will probably happen in the winter
to someone who does not deserve anything that cruel
It will probably hurt
I recommend you read The Gambler
On Feeling at Home Away From Home
Tea tastes the same wherever you are
home isn’t wherever you are
don’t cross your wires,
refuse comfort
at least TRY
On Having the Foresight to Try Not to Ruin a Good Thing to Save Myself Feeling Hurt Later
I definitely could
I might
I’m trying not to
I keep forgetting that when a girl meets a girl and kisses her, she is supposed to kiss only her?
On Being Okay
I think I will be
Maybe tomorrow, or the day after
Probably not next summer
Never in the summer, actually. Refer also to August
and the leaves
and leaving, and synonyms for it
she makes me feel it
On my Next Collection of Poems
I figured it out
it will be called Poems That Were Not Ever Supposed to be About Women
or Houses
Advice For Break-Ups
isn’t the worst thing that can happen
But it can help the worst things to happen.
On Conclusions
They don’t exist
But I’m trying.

The Bipolar Friendship

Originally posted on bi[polar] curious:

Whether you’re two friends and one happens to have bipolar disorder and the other doesn’t, or if you’re in the ever-intense double bipolar friendship (which tend to be some of my favorites), maintaining a friendship that includes bipolar disorder can be a confusing but rewarding adventure.

I must admit, the most common thing the bipolar-less person asks me is what their bipolar friend’s actions ultimately mean. Apparently there are things the (cycling, I’m not entirely sure about the stable ones) bipolar friend does that the average human friend doesn’t do, and I’ve seen some trends (and, well, lived them). What it boils down to is that problems with bipolar friendships seem to come most often from something like misinterpretation of our actions.

I thought I would put together a list of ways to help the friendships of anyone who is friends with someone with bipolar disorder. This could be for…

View original 1,015 more words

On bearing anxiety to the soundtrack of off key strumming

Her perfume is somehow haunting, drags me after her by my nose from my seat
I only seem to write women
Mostly into being
Sometimes out of being
An idea of a woman is always far less lovely
But when its inside my brain, so less far away
Second hand anxiety, because I had to look up
I had to look up. I always do
Reminds me of women
It always does
Nervous hands make poor musicians, worse bartenders
But fantastic lovers
My life (rather apparently) is always about women
Even when I have no women about.
And if I put this phone down, this glass down
I’ll have to look up