the jackalope
would the silence be cruel
if it were your daughter?
unable to articulate
the edges of her body,
or the careful ways
it’s deceived her.
and is the silence still cruel
if it were your daughter?
who traded truth for
a sisterhood
she cradled in the dark
and kept her small.
what if it were your daughter?
fawning, like prey
to their gaze—
a fleeting terror,
a primal knowing:
it’s all her fault.
secret admirer
i hold onto the idea that
you can’t go on without me—
every day that’s a memory
is a part of you i still have.
monday
twitching paws,
snoring.
the scent of arabica
still warm in a garage sale mug.
a gift, from my beloved—
hinted with a splash of milk.
the percale sheets are
slightly chilled against
my freshly-shaven calves.
yawning, my eyes water.
i’ll have to pee soon.
but i crack my journal
to write this instead.
a reminder that
these sensations exist
and for now,
i can be with them.
why do i read your letters
as if there’s anything new to say.
it’s walking the dogs
with residual guilt of
one more episode.
the foggy commute to
a stretch before
a Zoom binge.
it’s last night’s leftovers
in a container that
changed some influencer’s life.
what we made together—
link in bio.
isn’t the plate cold?
maybe a little more salt.
or are we both so tired
trying to figure it all out?
the mundane consumes me
but the rush of your handwriting
is like a boiling pot—
don’t touch it;
it will burn.
arrange yourself in a shape
across oceans and timelines.
if only its form could take
the one it held before.
keepsake
i only write when something has to get out—
i don't even think about it anymore.
except for
that one playlist.
shadow bodies slick with sweat,
steamy red rooms and
numb-gummed lips.
dreams? or was it,
you still awake
on the checkered kitchen floor.
cool as the day i met you.
silent as the day i left.
i don't even think about it anymore.
except for
neon staircases and
Tecate tall cans.
side-mouthed cigarettes
stained Cute As A Button.
street lamps? or was it,
the dawning light
as we drifted off to sleep.
beaming, like your belly laugh.
sharp, like its echo
in my peripheral.
i don't even think about it anymore.
except for when i do,
and then it's all i think about.
do you even miss me
can we skip to the part where
the growing is over,
the pain has subsided,
each bone is stretched
to its greatest capacity.
but is it that easy
for feelings to calcify.
so i wait, or
sometimes wallow,
impatient in the grey.
too far from who i am,
too close to
who i might be.
in my dreams i ask,
do you even miss me?
when i wake i wonder
is there anyone left to miss?
this is letting go
i’m afraid i lost the pinch pot you gave me—
not broken,
not stolen,
gone.
i long for
its crooked grooves
its hallowed depth
its smooshed shape
from hands.
the knock
on a dinner table,
sharing accoutrements
with the ones i love.
“it’ll turn up” he says.
but distraught isn’t a good enough word
for what it’s like to know
that might not be true.
still
i wonder
if we can pack up the pieces
and find each other again.
in the hallowed depths
in the crooked grooves
in the space between—
right where we left it.
like a lady
when you are standing
in the darkness
and you are scared.
remember.
the shadows are women
before you.
show me where it hurts
i'm reminded by you in the moments where space speaks for itself:
when the wind blows that wisp of hair into my mouth and
my clumsy smile catches it
over chapped lips. when
i feel what you’d say while
i'm doing something wrong
(but i'm not sure).
or your light hearted laugh when
i do something right
(and i know).