Ataturk

Maybe freedom is worth the ones whom we love
To hop on a train down the Côte d’Azur
or to fly into Ataturk
is so much better than happiness
Sometimes I wish that I could be old
and skip to the part where love matters most
Or I pray for selfishness
Because different maps excite us
and that’s normal
But I hate normal because it hurts so bad

Stand It

How much does it hurt?
I miss the smell of his shirt
I’m too high on caffeine for this to work
Into you I ran
Open mic night champ
I can’t stand it
I wore short shorts
But I fell to the floor
When you didn’t want me anymore
You played shamisen, they’d never heard it before
You held down the floor with photos and videos
I want to go home
I must paint my face like the clown that I am
You bring me down, man
I don’t know if I can
Prop myself up with my own hands
Again and again you leave me out of your plans
And you don’t give a damn
I’m not worthy of your time or your text back
But you’re not worthy of my heart attacks
Come back

Glass House

As the walls of modern houses
and windows all over the world
I am so special
Look through me
Touch me
Forgetting the ice I invoke
or loving me because of it

Find me raw
Without my frame
I lie alone on the ground
My jagged edges cutting your skin

But you are a peaceful flame
A candle of such warmth
that you may melt me down to
whatever I truly am
And I hope to God that
I won’t hurt you anymore

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