Tuesday, March 19, 2013



don’t leave me

she silently pleads through eyes that are wide and deep-set and dark

and sometimes, to you,

they may look hollow; empty even

but that’s only because you’re trying to convince yourself that she’s heartless.

Because you can’t grasp the concept of her,

how she can smile and wink with one side of her face and scowl with the other.

she may tell you

f*** off

in even fewer words than that,

but that’s only cos the fewer words she gives you,

the smaller glimpse you get

into her soul.

It is beautiful, though, you know.

Exquisite, even.

It may be poorly tended but

underneath the overgrowth

lies a rosegarden.

And she’s cautious.

Of course she’s cautious;

no one but her has ever set foot in it or even seen it.

She wants to open up to you,

to give you the key and invite you in


you haven’t given her any reason to believe that

you won’t stomp in

with muddy boots

and trample everything she’s spent her whole life protecting.

Just give her patience.


Keep quietly watering her soul from a distance

and put on your shiniest dress-shoes.

Just please don’t give up on her


This is a work of fiction // A Series in Wishful Thinking

Sometimes I shut my eyes so tightly

and hold my breath for so long

that my face turns your favorite shade of blue,

just because I want to see the stars and remember what it felt like to be kissed by you.

And sometimes I speed into the night sky just so I can throw my hand out the car window

and shake off the dust that’s settled inbetween my fingers since yours were last there.

I read last night that my body houses over three trillion cells

and within each one lies enough information to fill the pages of one hundred thousand novels.

If that’s true, then why can’t I find even one word to sufficiently express the sensation that washes over me every time I realize you’re truly and irrevocably gone?


I wonder if

when monsters go to bed at night,

they ask their parents to double-check for humans

under their beds and behind their closet doors;

because they’ve heard stories about a world where

men storm into movie theatres carrying nothing but a gun and a broken heart or a blind grudge

and where women confuse dumpsters for bassinets, as they lay their newborn infants down

alongside any trace of compassion left in their bodies.

Stories in which

liars live in mansions and honest men die in the streets.

I wonder if we’re the true monsters.
Stay away from the girl who spends her nights alone,

or else you’ll wake up to your phone ringing at four o’clock in the morning and find yourself holding back her long, matted hair exactly nineteen minutes later

while she heaves into the nearest wastebasket.

The air will become heavy with the smell of red wine and poetry and unspoken loneliness and when all her secrets have been spilled, she’ll turn around, eyes averted, wiping her mouth,

and she will curve like a comma around the doorframe, a break between the story told by senior portraits and diplomas hung on the walls.

The trail of letters still dripping off her chin spell out

S’il vous plait aidez-moi

but you slept through french class in highschool and won’t think much of it.

(That’s okay;

she won’t want you to)
Just gonna post some stories I've been working on over the past couplea months. So. There's that.