i parked my car in the driveway,
but i didn’t leave room for your truck.
i swept my floor, because it was dirty.
i did my dishes, because i needed to.
i showered.
shaved my legs.
i like lotion, i tell myself.
i cleaned the toilet, and the sink.
for myself, i lie.
at least when i am sad, in an hour,
when you don’t show up, again,
at least my space will be a comforting space.
i didn’t match my shirt to my pants.
i didn’t change the sheets. yet.
maybe i should.
for myself, you know.
i wonder how long i should be graceful,
in this mysterious calamity that has befallen me.
somedays i want to be the volcano
burying you with my fury,
burning you with the anger,
but instead i am nothing more than
a mild breeze trifling through the leaves.


good thing.

i am tired –
it has been a long day,
one still going.
i am afraid to put you in words.
i am afraid of the ending.
but then endings are inevitable,
to be present inside those moments,
has been refreshing,
an orgasm for the soul,
if you will.
i can see the light in the tunnel,
it’s irony, really,
seeing as how i’m just
trying to stay in the dark,
wanting you to be endless,
the kind of forever,
i don’t really believe is possible,
ill say it anyway,
you’ve been a good thing.
such a good thing.


art form.

there is an art to pain.
to putting on that smiling face
and laughing so real.
there’s an art to feeling
like your soul is ripping
down the fucking middle
and still standing straight up
against the brick wall
you keep running into.
pain. pain is an art form.
take that blood,
swirl it on a canvas,
make it fucking pretty.
rinse your brush in tears
you promised you would never cry.
hug yourself.
love yourself.
hurt yourself.
there is an art to pain.