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.


my head feels like shattered glass

and you bathe in its blood red tears.


your control
leaves me hanging
at the precipice
of darkness
for you push me over
don’t push me over
i’ll be good
i promise i’ll be good.


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.


your glass eyes
make me hang on to every word
every mistake
like the shadows cling to the moon
during daytime
and vanish into oblivion.

perfect lives

perfect lives
fall apart
this disintegration
of souls
and hearts
and families
come together
to form
and bonds
and life.


your hands feel like heaven,
leaving bruises,
until I have forgotten the passion
and these marks are all i have
these marks
are only thing
about me.


Your words feel

like sinking into a pillow

of clouds

at the end of a long day

like rising out of an abyss

into normality

like everything I have ever done 

has led me

to this moment,

to this burning, aching desire.


white foam


dark waters

that scream at me

to let them escape into

this fantasy 

of death and denial.


I am standing 

at the precipice 

of the ocean

and the sky,

at the point

where they merge

and you can’t tell the difference anymore.

when you kiss me