There is comfort at the bottom of a swimming pool. In the cool tile beneath your forgiving arms, the patient silver-grey ladder. You watch the world in slow motion, 15 feet below the surface. Still. Monochrome. Crepe skin, strawberry lips. Rosewater. Scarlet ceiling tiles. You fall in love here. Name yourself stolen. Recognize ghosts (they may never leave your bloodstream). Make promises you can never keep. Fall further away from yourself. Sink to 20 feet below.

Pull me from the bathroom and restrain my hands. Kiss my inner thighs, force breath into my desperate lungs. Replace my esophagus with silver tubing, by brain with something more malleable. I suppose that I could be desired with a few adjustments. Selling variety meats, leaving behind those unchanging.

My dear, you deserve everything beautiful. Roses on your birthday. Endless seas and crisp blue nights. Beating hearts. Strong thread. Pearlescent buttons. Tender hands and soft words. Sweet oils. Miles of skin.

You are everything. And you don’t matter at all. You are burning, everyday, all of your stories rapidly dissolving to steam. You never parish. You become a new story, rise from fire and dust.

You keep your hand on the glass beside you. You strike the match.


carrying a narrative (on leslie harrison)

unravel me // under a near-white sky // watch as my body grows // gardens // of barely healed // feelings // show me every beautiful thing // so I can love it too // the way shallow // loves the sea // river bends // elbows // never forget // soft beating // skipping steps // never forget // fragility // you tangled // beautiful thing.

thermos wine

wet // like roman june // but not as glamorous // maybe january in new mexico // cold tremors // we joke // you’re not punk unless you eat cigarettes // the last cigarette you can afford // put your hand too close to my face // you know that turns me on you ass // my head between knees // not yours // mine // my chest // a world that will never belong to either of us // look out across the creek // I wish I were a mallard // calculated shattering // you don’t touch me again.

4:30am coffee

I don’t know what makes us human more than our mistakes and that just breaks me.


it has always been you // which is to say // I won’t write trauma on your skin // but bury it in the garden // where salvia grows in excess // beneath a moon as full as my heavy head // heavy as when the lover laments their love // almost as if to say // it has always been you // lying beneath a venetian sun // ears pricked by sultry nina // you’re making that face again // that I can’t read for shit // but I can feel your aftershocks in my bones // I’ll never take for granted // the fortune of colliding // of running hot on the inside // and pouring over.

kill yr god

if not in the bedroom

or on the kitchen table

you will kill your own god

you will learn to hate your own angels

filled with nothing

but the soul once put forward

you will wake in reverse

watch as the telephone wires

dance amongst the trees

set fire to the needles

and the falling leaves

you will remember me in this

in the tangle of these lives

forget to catch your breath

on the way home

you will hold onto me

for I hold this

and this holds true

you will recover and start

that is


and begin again


on the edge of sleep

I am back in the gallery

looking for you

bruised wrists

weighted breaths


I wait for you

between paintings

watch your wild

the way the big moon

watches the gentle grains

touched by another and

I bless every one


the first time

I don’t stop to catch my breath

you leave me begging

cut yourself

on my broken parts



might kill us