The interior of the universe
looks something like you,
a reprise of all our comingtogethers,
or someone else’s clavicles of hope-
It is a trick, I mistake you
for a forest fire.

but I am a periscope
of your nuclear holocaust.


The Day the Cat Died

The day the cat died,
you sat on a stool
in the bathroom

I asked my mother
why you were crying

she said
because the cat died

I said

that’s going to be me,
you said

you didn’t look once
at the cat we had
for twelve years,
the cat that hid
behind the couch
each time
you came home

you cried
in the bathroom
on the stool
with painted balloons
and carousel horses
not wanting to die
like the cat
that laid on the floor
on a blanket
in my bedroom

then I waited
for you to die,
just like the cat
with the brown and orange fur
and you did,
but I did not
sit on the stool
in the bathroom
to cry over you
or the dead cat
you didn’t want to bury
in the backyard

I counted the hours
until the sun came up
without you
for the first time
dividing you
and I.


I said
to myself

I was done.

I tried
to speak
or to say
at all
to you

but when I did,
it didn’t sound
like my voice
this time,
or the last time.

I wasn’t
coming home
for hours,
I slept
in my car,
I went
to work.

I came home
some morning,
closed the door
behind me

with you
sitting at
the end
of the table

you hadn’t
how long
I was gone.

I left
my bedroom
light on,

I didn’t
shut the door
behind me.

and it didn’t matter
that I had said
I was done
or that I stopped
going home

because it
had never
been up to


Tied my hair up,
and cut it all off
you said how
fucking dumb of an idea
it was
in the middle of January.

so I said
I’ll let it grow back,
and I did

We had said
that this time
It was different,
but I kept my sweaters on,
pulling them over my head
closing my eyes,
and going to bed alone.

And mostly me
weren’t any different
and I slammed my hands
against the white
plastic table,
I could’ve sworn
I was trying,
But your words
and the silence between them
dug into me
until I
stayed up until the sun
thinking how I wasn’t much
of myself anymore,
somebody or something
I thought you wanted.

You didn’t call me
for hours,
saying I ate up too much of your time
Or how my name tasted sour and hers was new and she was funny,
and you didn’t think that I was.

Then you would draw me back,
For a week
Or two
because you thought you loved me,
but thinking wasn’t easy
for me,
So I let you sleep
In my bed
wanting to forget
how cyclic
you and I
had became.

And my insides began to unravel,
realizing how much longer my hair had gotten,
and we hadn’t gotten anywhere
and you slept so easily
through the night
and it seemed nothing bothered you
much at all.


He spoke
at me
in tangled
that wrapped
my chest
and grew bold,
repeated lines
my insides.

And my hands
when I press them
anything else.

buttoning back up
any shred of
shivered confidence
that one,
others might
attempt to peel

A Younger Me

A younger me was unable let another person feel parts of me that I myself couldn’t get a grip on. I had considered myself timid, but swiftly, I began to realize that I was characteristically selfish with my love, and how I wanted to feel love. I wanted to cling onto something, anything – It did not have to be real, because unreal, intangible love somehow began to make more sense to me. My thoughts were unruly, untamed, as I wanted to hear him tell me things that would make his head swell. It was a craving to know – to feel another being so deeply and whole. But I did not want to give the same back to him.

I held back parts of me and fabricated details, minuscule to magnitudes. I latched onto ideas, motifs of different people or ideas I knew or had simply heard of. I was feral and hungry with projecting an unreal me, letting my senses flood with exhilaration each time I let my mouth consume any fragment of honesty I possessed. I pushed thoughts of the glaring wreckage that lie ahead aside whenever those thoughts arouse. We were writhing with passion, a demented form of love that was real, and yet felt false and codependent. I had hid behind a facade but also felt somehow, I was utterly honest in every aspect as I truly began to trust each lie I weaved in between the two of us. It went on until I was sure that he loved me, and he did. He told me through months that became years, and behind different backdrops of our lives, he loved me.
I can guarantee that he does not as much as mutter my name under his breath any longer.


I was
with thoughts
of you,
through my head.

My hands
in his hair,
but it could
have been yours,
and my thoughts
his current,
and loving him
was fucking
an insanity
that I couldn’t

but you
kept me
up at night,
what I thought
was a subtle
in my ears,
but it

every time
he put his hands
against me,
all I could think
was you,




Could have sworn
that I gave up
enough time
for a better feeling
or an easier end,
but I don’t swear
Not when it comes to you.

I shiver
from every word
you speak.
It feels so good,
even when it’s
a charade
from the truth.

Now I wonder
if you think of me.
Think about my mouth
finding countless ways
to show you love.
Or if I am just a clutter
of bad memories
that you can’t seem
to get straight.