Dissect the layers of my mind—
these thoughts unspool like thread.
Then leave me in a twisted mess,
my messages unread.
First, hold me with such reverence,
as if a sacred text.
Then smoke each page like incense
as you resurrect your ex.
My love is like a burning bush—
its tongues glow orange and red.
How dare you bring me back to life
then leave me here for dead?
One year to the day.
False prophet on the tarmac.
The advent of Artscape.
Drunken noodles, hotel room.
Punch holes in time and space.
That hardcore show at Ottobar.
My windmill to the face.
Presyncope and shower steam.
You told me I was safe.
I blinked and then you disappeared.
I cried in uppercase.
A steady hand upon my back.
Found hope in cyberspace.
I burned you with your poetry.
Your residue remained.
Three months of sweet camaraderie.
Would patience win the race?
A sinking feeling in my gut.
The mask fell from his face.
Betrayal didn't sting enough.
On cue: Amazing Grace.
A bitter cold December.
But the veil was thin that day.
She called for me. I answered.
Though I knew not what to say.
Exhausted from the lessons,
I closed my eyes and prayed.
Then Romeo came running
just in time for Hallmark day.
I knew he smelled like trouble.
He disarmed me anyway.
And just as quickly as he came,
the wind swept him away.
And here I am still standing.
in the wake of this decay.
My PhD in love and loss
feels like a curse most days.
But something big is stirring
even though the sky's still gray.
It rattles deeply in my bones,
the reason for this ache.
I know not what is coming,
but I know I'll be okay.
Illuminated by her torch,
this love—enduring, stays.
As I drive past these Artscape tents,
it all clicks into place.
It felt like I was skinned alive.
I molted like a snake.
I spread my wings, but freedom felt like death—
abducted from the earth that once held me.
Inside a vast expanse, I fought for breath
then bled through ink and wrote this elegy.
My soul diffused like vapor through the sky;
my body lost sensation, could not move.
I wondered why I'd ever try to fly
when gravity kept pulling me to you.
The upper air is thin and laced with frost,
a quiet, systematic sort of chill.
Above the clouds, all sense of self was lost—
just static coursing through an empty shell.
For what is flight if not a phantom stride?
An aimless drifting through a formless blue.
I'd rather crash against the mountain side
than soar among those clouds still grieving you.
I've always had a tendency
to plunge beneath the surface
straight into the deep.
Breath became an afterthought,
until the panic settled in—
reality surfaced, bleak.
I thought you were my oxygen—
your nitrogen still steeps.
A fleeting, painful effervescence.
Silly me.
The horses' names were Yin and Yang—
Their lightning hoofbeats jolted me awake.
Majestic creatures, wild and untamed—
one black, one white—each pulled toward separate fates.
Shackles loosened, chains no longer bound,
my browbone glistening with beads of sweat—
I summoned courage, though none could be found—
my fear insisting, "You're not ready yet".
At first resisting, burdened with the weight—
I hung my head and dragged those heavy chains.
But destiny, refusing to abate—
enchanted them, transformed them into reins.
I found their bits and calmly set their leads—
maintaining focus, steering towards the sun.
Then Yin and Yang—those stubborn, fiery steeds—
they found their rhythm, galloping as one.
Through asphalt fissures, sovereignty blooms—
brutalist beauty emerging from the crypt.
Cradled by the fractures, resilience stakes its roots—
still tangled, yet unbound from what once strangled it.
Rising from the catacombs, her feral ivy creeps,
reaching toward the heavens from a plot of cracked cement.
The clouds deliver parting words, the sun sinks into sleep.
She maps her way through darkness 'til she breaks the firmament.
And unapologetically, unfolding in the light—
A resurrected radiance stays rooted in the night.
Spicy, gooey, hot,
drizzled with cream cheese frosting—
strictly here for buns
The clock ticks on at warpspeed
but all I hear is you—
or maybe it's the echoing
of my own solitude.
It spins like looping vinyl—
I suppose that I do too,
with needle-like precision,
though I'm trapped inside your groove.
I knew it wasn't safe to speak—
you didn't want the truth.
I swallowed silence like a pill
so as not to burden you.
Backed tightly in your corner,
what else was there to do?
Tangled up in filament,
I spun and spun for you.
I couldn't help but follow,
though I never followed through.
I always loved the darkness
and I swore it loved me too.
I wore devotion like a stain,
then started bleeding through.
I know you never asked for this;
I never asked for you.
But there you dangled in my face—
I reached, and you withdrew.
I lit a match to warm myself
and cauterize the wound.
I didn't mean to torch the web,
but how that hellfire grew.
It's odd, but now I'm shivering—
my fingertips are blue.
I thought I wanted certainty,
but now I just want you.
Instead, I'll hold what's left of us:
regret and residue.
There must have been a typo in my Punnett square,
because it's honestly excessive how much I care.
This pathologic empathy—both blessing and curse
has often times prevented me from putting myself first.
But martyrdom is futile unless it pays the rent.
I've forfeited my personhood, then wondered where it went.
Abundance was a foreign word, I fluently spoke lack—
I learned, in time, the choice was mine and took my power back.
My battery's been running low; at least my bills are paid.
I didn't have to sell my soul—I made an honest trade.
My rebel heart is filled with grief; there's nothing left to win.
I'd rather turn it into art than spread myself too thin.
Compulsion is a crazy thing; though longing is a curse,
I've flipped the script and found a way to make it fill my purse.
With everything they take from me, my magnum opus grows.
No longer is my cup empty; it simply overflows.
You, my dear—
you came to shake things up...
which is funny because
I always thought that was my job.
When you left, you stole the sun.
And knowing better than to beg, I chose to run.
This thing became bigger than both of us.
I only wish I could have stayed with you.
But I saw how it was killing you. And it killed me too.
So like a bird, I spread my wings and flew.
I think you knew that you would be
the catalyst of my becoming
I think about you constantly.
Did you know you'd still be
my chosen one?
I think I fell in love with R.L. Stine—
suspense is sexy, but I've heard it kills.
His goosebumps series penned along my spine—
the plot line was so good it gave me chills.
He traced my boneyard braille—I shivered cold
and dog-eared every chapter of his touch.
This mastermind of mayhem had me sold—
his cliffhanger became my gateway drug.
With clacking teeth, I dug my shallow grave,
resigned to spend this lifetime in pursuit.
For every phantom promise he once gave,
I combed the crypt for remnants of the proof.
He taught me every monster worth my fear
looks gentler while he whispers in my ear.
I think I fell in love with R.L. Stine—
suspense is sexy, but I've heard it kills.
His goosebumps series penned along my spine—
the plot line was so good it gave me chills.
He traced my boneyard braille—I shivered cold
and dog-eared every chapter of his touch.
This mastermind of mayhem had me sold—
his cliffhanger became my gateway drug.
With clacking teeth, I dug my shallow grave,
resigned to spend this lifetime in pursuit.
For every phantom promise he once gave,
I combed the crypt for remnants of the proof.
He taught me every monster worth my fear
looks gentler while he whispers in my ear.
I could write you a sonnet in Python code,
though you'd probably run before it had a chance to load.
Instead, I throw my sorrows at the screen,
but the only thing sticking is these fucking keys.
Syntactically challenged (as I'm sure you know),
I opt for Ctrl + Alt + Del.
My webcam watches with contempt
but I'm much too proud to admit defeat...
... so I immerse myself in command prompt glow—
a slow recursion,
almost like the serpent
swallowing itself whole.
But the logic doesn't ever seem to hold;
and the output isn't something I control.
So I'll swallow up your silence as you go,
deleting every data frame I've known.
I wish I didn't have to do this, though.
I could write you a sonnet in Python code,
though you'd probably run before it had a chance to load.
Instead, I throw my sorrows at the screen,
but the only thing sticking is these fucking keys.
Syntactically challenged (as I'm sure you know),
I opt for Ctrl + Alt + Del.
My webcam watches with contempt
but I'm much too proud to admit defeat...
... so I immerse myself in command prompt glow—
a slow recursion,
almost like the serpent
swallowing itself whole.
But the logic doesn't ever seem to hold;
and the output isn't something I control.
So I'll swallow up your silence as you go,
deleting every data frame I've known.
I wish I didn't have to do this, though.
Recursive, I retrace the wound
as if one more pass will make it hurt less.
No trace of granulation tissue—
just this necrotic bed smelling vaguely of death
and faintly, of vermouth.
I'm brewing a tonic of my own undoing,
steeping the herbs in the hollows of my palms.
I should be dreaming while the night is still calm,
but instead I lie here stewing
over where the spell went wrong.
Stitching wormholes closed with a needle and twine—
the taste of wormwood lingers in your place.
Plagued by spirits of my own design,
it seems that mine may be a hopeless case.
I guess I'll give it time.