i don’t blame you

i don’t blame you for screaming

i don’t blame you for hurting

for crying

for feeling

i don’t blame you for anything you do

and yet you blame me

for every step you take

like it is my fault i have bruises from your assaults

like it is my fault that you hate me enough to stay

all i want is to go back to when you were in love with me

so in love that you didn’t speak for weeks

at least i didn’t have to wear long sleeves and bandages.


there is a photograph

on the table

beside the yellow window

and this table is bent

from the middle

bent from the weight

with cracks lining its legs

and fungus rotting its insides

there is a table that stands

besides the yellow window

and the table is so much like me.

illusions of death

let me bleed

through your illusions

my hallucinations

until everything that falls

from my arms

is emptiness

and death.



we are all a little conflicted
and our beauty lies
in this paradox
of love and hate,
of poetry and conversations
and the similarities
contained within the space of two words.


fireflies flit across a darkened table

in the woodlands

awaiting inspiration.