The Narrator

Perhaps to rid me of me
Gliding the bottom of my pencil
all along my joints, my thumbs,
like a massage bead and oil,
all along the concaves of my face
For it is no longer your voice speaking my thoughts


Falling Asleep with Your Jeans On

I wish that I could mourn more gracefully
Weeping, clad in black
A dress down to my ankles, and crisp rose petals dying in the stale air
But in reality, mourning looks like
Falling asleep with your jeans on
and forgetting to brush your teeth
A room with a bed unmade and clothes
and clothes and headphones and cords and Important Things on the floor
Mourning is watching the TV endlessly, the same show on repeat
The box of cookies and the milk left on the coffee table


My beloved journal, my black leather-bound
Filled with pages of ex-lovers and heartache and sex
Rests unbeautifully in a drawer with papers and things
No quill pen, no tear stains blurring the ink
No poetry
Just blankness and weeks skipped


But in those gaps lies the honesty