Shotgun shell love, maybe that’s why
we’re always dying from it, maybe
that’s why the doctors say that they can’t
pick apart our shrapnel, maybe that’s
why it won’t be alright.

Sorry about the depressing poetry, sorry
that my chest is festering from open wounds
caused by middle-of-the-night emotions,
sorry my hands look a bit empty to you.

It’s because your fingers aren’t filling in all
my gaps so I’m just hoping the contractors
get here soon. We’re filling in each hole with
cement made of I love you so
you can see me easier.

Bottle of pills love, something you don’t
want but the doctors always talk about, it’s
what the teachers always try to be quiet
about, it’s the reason there’s an empty seat
in your history class.

Listen to me, okay? Listen to me. It’s gonna
be alright. Love, love, whatever, we keep
loving and sometimes it makes us die but
then we’re like spring, and you know how much
you love spring. You know how much you love
pointing to the blooming flowers and say
We are alive again, baby.

It’s because there’s so many emotions
I’m just trying to not explode all over you,
otherwise my father will dislike you a bit more
and your parents won’t be too happy with
the stains in your shirt. But I love you, I love
you and I love you and someone go load the
shotgun because you are going to destroy me,
darling, and I love you.



I hope you have a good day.

I hope the weather is how you like it,
that you see your favorite color worn by
your favorite person. I hope everything
is secured at the pace you desire, whether
it be driving on the road
or how your teacher lectures.
I hope you make a new acquaintance
who understands your obscure references.
I hope the poem you write today
fits your standards.

I hope nobody narrows their eyes at you
and that everyone calls you friend.
That the stress is ebbed away, that it rises
off your shoulders as if two angels
picked it up for you. I hope
today is a good day.
I hope today is a day where you start
believing in the possibility of more good

Somewhere out there, a bedridden child
is wondering how many stars are in our
galaxy. There is a pair of lovers
who look like a pair of palms.
Someone is crying on the floor
of the subway station before
a stranger bends down and offers them
Chests are rocking back and forth like
waves, people are letting in breath
and kicking out life. Time is passing.
We are thawing.
The sunlight is streaming through
millions of window panes.

I hope you have a good day today.
I hope it is the kind of day you dream
about when you’re sad.


"I remember the magician trying to explain to us
there was no magic trick that could bring
the towers back.
Barbie doll cakes bought by my grandmother,
all of which was used as an explanation of why
my mother wasn’t around for the first seven
birthdays. On the eighth, ninth, tenth,
eleventh, twelfth, I remember my mother
apologizing because we were poor. I remember
overhearing my father that night. Angry,
solidified, trying-to-be-quiet-for-the-birthday-girl,
What did you do
with all of her money?

I remember him giving me a thick wad of cash
inside my card the next year, a gentle reminder
that my mother took away more than just
my sense of trust.
I remember my brother complaining
about my favoritism, I bet he thought I jaywalked
all over his birthday fifteen sun cycles
before mine began.
He didn’t know that it was all for pity,
he didn’t know my dad was just trying to make
up for all of the times my birthday fell short
because my mother tried to stand too tall.
I remember a surprise party and a giant stuffed panda.
Sleeping on his fat belly until it turned gray,
then throwing it away because it smelled like
my mother’s cigarettes. I remember her flimsy
Then, a thick chocolate cake with little flowers on top.
Not an explanation this time, I knew this was
a heads-up, a warning, a notification, a memo slyly
tucked in between the lines of a birthday song:
my mother was not coming back.
You are allowed to pluck every petal for yourself.
I was not very hungry that year.
Then I remember waking up at midnight to you.
And again, at seven in the morning, when you pressed
a coffee in my hands and told me happy birthday.
This time, it sounded like a promise.
Your skin tastes better than any cake,
I opened your hands like I was trying to read
a birthday card. Let me forget the rest of the years.
Because, God, I’ll remember you.
Thank you for changing the end of this poem.
Thank you for the 18."


It’s 3 AM and the couple upstairs
are threatening to break up again.
This is the third time this week
he came home drunk, smelling wrong.
She tells him that this is it,
the locks will be changed on every door
he ever walked through if he did it
again. He says he loves her.
It’s 3 Am and she doesn’t say it back.

I stumble into their life on weekday
nights because those are
the days he wants to forget. On Mondays he has
a bad day at work. On Tuesdays
he has bad days after work. On Wednesday
his mother calls and he has to drink a beer
afterward. I don’t know why he is drunk
on Thursdays. On Friday he swears
this is the last time he’ll drink, he will stop
for her.
Then on the weekend, he spends two days
sweating out the alcohol. But he’ll have
a bad day at work on Monday.
And he will come home drunk, smelling wrong.
She will threaten to change the locks. He
will say he loves her. It will come out like
a long line of apologies.

It’s 3 AM and he comes home drunk, smelling wrong.
The front door rattles me awake, the knocking
pulls me right out of my good dream.
The alcohol on his breath turned her name into
a long broken gash.
He came home drunk, smelling wrong.
She changed the locks on their apartment, on her heart.
I hear him slumped against the door, falling asleep
to the sound of the silences on the inside
of the apartment. I hear him say he loves her.
I hear her quiet voice, so tender and soft that it
seeps through the ceiling and into my ears,
say it back.


"3 AM" - e.p.h. (via teentitan-)


When I say I love you,
I mean that I will search the stars
because they resemble your light
and it’s the only place
I think I can find you anymore.

When I say I love you,
it’s not just something a girlfriend
says after a certain amount of time,
it’s a way of telling you I’m
not letting go this time.
My hands are clenched around your
collar and I swear to God I am
not letting go.

When I say I love you,
I am trying to tell you that you
are my heartbeat. You are my darling.
You are my favorite kind of flower.

When I say I love you,
I am struggling to find a word
that describes how much my chest
hurts because I keep trying to contain
myself. My jaw turns in your direction
every time. I’m instinctively calling
your name. I am trying to show you
every single day that I love you
does not nearly come close
to how I feel.

When I say I love you,
I feel summer in my veins. When you look
at me, I see my favorite kind of morning.
Your mouth is the sweetest taste in the world,
your hands are my home. I love you.
I love you.
I love you.



you’re going to leave someday,
and that terrifies me but you’re going to leave
and we might not be together in ten years
no matter how hard we try to hold each other’s
it’s a tragedy, it’s a nightmare, it’s sometimes
i’m sorry.

but your eyes will always be my favorite color.
i don’t think i will fall in love with someone’s
chest or smell the way i fell in love with yours.
i can’t wait until
the rain comes so we can run through it
and i can’t wait until
we figure out little ways to say i love you
and i can’t wait until
you realize my love for you isn’t small.
it’s not first love, it’s like a religion,
i’ll pray until i have you again.

you showed me your insides, you showed me
your outsides, you showed me your hands.
i can never thank you enough
for letting me read you all the love poems
i wrote about you.
i can never thank you enough
for falling in love with me.

we might not make it. i’m scared we might
not make it. i don’t want anyone
but you. i don’t want
someone to say they love through my ugly
unless it’s you.

but today will be beautiful because
you will kiss me. tomorrow will be beautiful
because you will kiss me again. we
can go on and on but every morning
and night will be beautiful
and i don’t have you to hold me
so i fall asleep in your sweaters.

thank you for being a shoulder, for being an arm,
for being something i can’t help
but reach for.
thank you for making the gaps between my
fingers seem quite small. thank you
for knowing i am a tiny storm
in a tiny body
and thinking nothing but how beautiful
lightning can be.



Thank you to the man, that had just gotten out of jail two days before, that bummed me a cigarette after he said that my eyes were far too sad and far beyond the years that I had.

(via raunchy-ratchet-hoe)


Gosh it’s 7:07am and I didn’t sleep last night.

Everything felt so dark and cold;

My apartment
My bed
My own goddamn skin

I spent the night on my balcony,
looking at the city half asleep,
just breathing and breathing,

smoking so much cigarettes
the smoke ended up looking like fog,

hoping that turning my lungs
black like the night
was the first step to feeling like all the stars in the galaxy
were within me.

Like I used to feel when you told me you loved me.

But I guess that did not work
because the only thing I felt last night

was pain.

Pain caused by your absence.

Pain caused by the fact that
I can no longer call you at 3am
because nothing feels beautiful anymore
and I just want to die.

Pain caused by the fact that
I cannot hug you anymore.

Oh how I miss hugging you,

hugging you felt like being complete again;

it felt like you could reassemble
all the broken pieces of my soul
just by wrapping your arms around my waist
and whispering love poems in my ear.

I thought about you and being in your arms
all night while I was outside,

just looking at the stars to remember how small I was

and how small and insignificant you were
even though on nights like those,
it still felt like you were the whole universe.

In high school, my Science teacher taught me
that when you look at a star,
it is in fact probably dead.

and I guess all I am trying to say is that
even though I may compare you a lot to stars,

my love for you will never die.


Cigarette fog and dead stars. (via goldenkintsugi)

(via raunchy-ratchet-hoe)