Tag Archives: depression


I am stuck standing in the

mud of a time where words got

knotted together because there was no

lack of voices in our home, just the constant

knocking of chatter against the windows and the

walls of weather, what’s-for-dinner

but all of it was like the tiniest of earthquakes in

my chest, that old reliable constant

loud or barely heard it was there,

the warmest grip on my bones in the

bluish hue of the television


but now


I am knocking on the walls and

holding my breath to hear if my

memories come pounding back, and setting a

table for a solitary two is only romantic

sometimes because there is a catch,

when you are exchanging

expired stories over breakfast eventually

they all run out and the silence comes,

that deafening reminder to turn up

the heat, turn up the radio, anything to

take the edge off

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you watch me fading

sweetly from the

cliff side of our bed like

I always do when the rain

knocks gently on our door

and washes my bones so that I

can fold as small as every

love note you leave on my pillow,

praying words will be enough

to lift me from my grave,

water my hollow insides,

maybe glance outside and catch

my sunken face in the window


but I am spending ages trying

to remember how your mouth

feels as I am struggling

to open mine long enough to

wet my tongue and remind you

that even from here I have the best

view of just how lovely you are


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the worst of it


you watched me

on the big screen

shattering like a

tea pot and screaming

the worst of it

into a void that’s been

empty for years


you kept my

hands warm

through the worst of it

you let me see

all the shapes

in the clouds

and still kissed me after


and when I am

a woman again

you lay hands on

my hips like

a beautiful heirloom

every flaw is

some wonderful memory


my heart continually breaks

at every god


familiar seam

and you are waiting

every single time

you are waiting for me


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I am still in our bed

I am still counting

your footsteps that faded hours ago

and where you placed

your fingers on me

is still burning like it’s

known death too soon.


Ages ago we were

somewhere in moonlight

decoding one another

and your spine was the most beautiful braille

so I’d close my eyes

inhale your literature

and sing out all your best stories.


I was never aware

that I was becoming illiterate

instead I woke

to the same old sunlight

and suddenly the tides of your breath

were leaving me

empty as the words that had stopped forming.


There is no you

on my lips anymore

just some old story

that has hardened on my tongue

and I am desperate to forget

it was seven


seven footsteps that carried you away from me.


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Lily Eyes

i’ve been packed in some

u n g o d l y   earth

like all of the dead i know

we are molding daisies

with our hands


her chest is

two perfect rosebuds

.         i close my lily eyes


leaves and cold rain


if i reach my branches

.                              a little
to the left

there are earth worms

digging their way up.


i try to dance with them

.         we twist freely in the dark

falling in rhythm with the forest


i’m blooming like my grandmother’s garden


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where loneliness begins


I remember drab linoleum

like a jaded family reunion


in muggy midsummer there are

flies making figure eights

over the casserole


that place is where

my loneliness begins.


a fan in the corner

is humming dust bunny confetti

around my bedroom


occasionally I hear

a lock turn over


the wood is splintered

at the bottom of my door


they won’t believe me


but it’s louder than

my songs

that rattle paper walls

like sudden cracks of thunder.


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there’s no map in my pocket

not somewhere to fashion

big red bull’s-eyes

every time I feel




it’s all etched in

my half-smile

full skirts

too many glasses

of red wine

red lipstick.


you yell out

I shrink in my seat

suddenly these flowers

in my hair

yoko ono sunglasses

look so ridiculous


whatever you think you know

well, you don’t know it

you are as insignificant

as insignificant gets

your words spill out

like a dripping faucet



down the drain with you.


my fist is dripping

with striking realism

there’s a mosaic of glass

at my feet

and I can’t remember

how I got here.


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I Came Back Broken


One morning I left, kissed you goodbye

in the sun to the humming of a lawn mower,

your coffee mug carried some motivating script.


I returned, same sunset, different Thursday

so often snagged on repeat in our heads

I took my boots off in the foyer,

I left them in the middle of the floor

you tripped dramatically as you

looked at them, looked at me,

I’d came back broken and you knew it.


But you didn’t

fold your hands in your lap

didn’t call your mother for advice,

leave the room when I entered,

whispered pleas,

what do I do

will she come back.


Instead you lifted me

beneath the arms,

placed my feet on top of yours,

I placed my cheek on your armor-chest

and we marveled and swayed

falling together in and out

of sun and moonlight.


I fell asleep, eventually

and you held your breath

you let me rest,

when I opened my eyes again

I tried to stand but

my heart was woven too deeply into yours.


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Rose buried her voice

in their garden,

it was after midnight.


she shoveled out a shallow grave

placed the mess inside

patted the dirt with the back of her hand

felt her way to a flat piece of earth

somewhere to mourn in silence

(all she had now).


the moon went up, she drifted

somewhere over

waves of breath she heard him,

remembered the way his chest

would vibrate with every important word

she never focused on,

only felt with fingertips.


Rose was a child for

all twenty six years

so eager

in her mother’s high heels

she slipped thin limbs

around his waist

she hung limp like

an eager girl.


masquerading as a woman

had left her with a man that

let his arms fall like a dying avalanche

from her hips,

the worst of this life,

a fading love.


in one last

flailing attempt

she threw on her black boots

took her insecurities from the

kitchen drawer and

trekked to the garden

(tiptoed past the gardenias).


she kneeled in the soil, Rose

and admitted

for the first time

that she was beautiful

roughly, pathetically, beautiful.



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A passing rainstorm

taken by night,

I am muddled with

aimless highway drivers and the

helpless blurring of street light art

reflecting off the pavements.


From your balcony

I am tortured beauty

sliced unequally into alleyways

and neighborhood basketball courts,

the distant chiming of last call

and echoed laughter

like breaking china,

a midnight siren across the river.


When you’re feeling


you might stroll my tired walkways,

find diamonds flailing

in my many voices

that reach out like fire victims

from every doorway.


There is danger


beneath my eyelids,

they are drawn tightly

to shut you out,

only until morning.


When the sounds stop

in the in between

you’ll find me

like a brand new day,

I am collective,

every me is

yawning away the chaos.







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