Every road ends at you, ends at him, ends at you and her,

not me and him.

You and her, if that’s it I’ll do nothing.

Red covers throats, covers wrists, it’s going to cover your grave before long.

Seeping over, covering the white roses you never bought me

If it had been anyone, it would have been you.

Except you were busy, or leaving, sometimes not thinking.

Arms holding me up, hands laying me down;

you taught me.

and then you ended me.

and it would have been fine.

if you had showed up.


“Should Have Known Better”


I should have known better, hating you, writing love letters.

I’m reduced to ashes, steam barely moves from my mouth.

Winter has frozen me over, and I’m loathe to let myself out.

The apartment is barren, and I’ve lost you.

I’ve lost the heat, I’ve lost the life, if I don’t move I’ll surely die.

I understand it, though, the dead pride that burns in lost thoughts.

The dead hope that burns in lost lives.

I could be a lost life, and you wouldn’t care. You picked me up twice,

my body laid bare.

My feet dragged on the shore, the camp was ahead of us.

You were a poet, you weren’t here for survival. You were here for charm,

what a shame you were dead wrong.

I was here because I had nowhere else to be, I had no one else to be.

When the wire got tight, when the wire got thin

you left me behind and said, “Go ask him.”

The Love that Lost A Thousand Ships


In my spare time, I sank ships. 

In the years before me, there had been no ocean.

My broken heart was the cure for this.

I cried them into existence, left pieces of myself in the droplets.

The waves were my anger, the breezes my sorrow.

The storms were my passion.

And my passion had been great. Wild. Deep.

Even the residue of it, dissolved in the tears that I had wept, 

was strong enough to overpower the ships that dared cross me.

I smashed hulls, snapped masts in two, snapped Men in two.

My lover never dared breach the waves

for fear of me.

And that was my revenge.

My soul, my soul


My soul, my soul, I tried I tried to write it all down. I tried to show you my black hands and my clean heart but you wanted none of me. You strung, and strung, and strung. You left me breathless with tears, driving with no place to go. You didn’t answer calls, you sent half-texts. I wish I wish you could have seen my heart, seen the depth, seen the stars. But you were too broken, too lost. And I was far, far too gone.

Letters To My Ex: No. 1


Because we never dated, you can never be my ex. By your logic. You were so obsessed with labels and trademarks and logos and words that you forgot to look at me. We were never exes. I did not introduce you to people as my boyfriend.

I was certainly in love for five years, but you were not mine.

The love of my life, perhaps, but never mine.

And I really thought you loved me, too. I’m willing to concede that you cared about me, maybe even more than the rest of the girls you slept with. More than the girl with The Book Thief name, or your best friend, or your first lay.

But the amount of care, the measurement of your emotions….doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if it could be measured in milliliters, or liters, or even kiloliters. The amount of care you possessed for me was still too small, but I didn’t know it then. I made excuse, after excuse. This thing, that person, that event….you had been through a lot. It wasn’t your fault that you couldn’t realize me. I defended you against all enemies, against every enemy. Especially when they came from our group. Even when they came from my best friend, from my brother, from my mother, from my cousin. From the cop who saw me crying on the side of the road.

Until Saturday. Until Sunday? Until That Day.

“If that ever happens again, you know you can call me.”You said to the cuts on my arm.

“Can I?” I asked. I should have known then. I didn’t believe the words. You were promising to keep me alive, you promising you would help me, I was thinking you might save me, but I didn’t believe a word out of your mouth. You had never saved me before. There was no reason to start now. You were saying pretty words so that you could get the credit without the work. And I knew it, I knew it.

Even that knowledge was not enough to help me fall out of love.

Until Saturday. Until Sunday? Until That Day.

Driving home, dark and wet and dripping and aiming for a bridge or a gun or a knife or sleeping pills and I thought, “I can call him. Just this once, I can call him.”

But I knew you wouldn’t answer. The phone rang, and it rang, and it rang….stretching through the miles between us and the years between us and the distance between us and the…the distance between us.

And when you didn’t answer I wasn’t surprised. I was infuriated, maddened, disheartened.

You sent half a text the next day, and never called me back.

If I had been dead you wouldn’t have known, and I suspect you would have moved past caring after a few days.

And that was it.

I was half dead, and you were busy.

So I saved myself, and then I left you behind.

What You Made of Me


Fuck me, drown me, let me go.

Comeback, dripping lake water home.

Float at the bottom of the surface,

dreaming circles about your lost courage.

Bruises, bleeding, split lips.

We fight…we dream of sailing ships.

I don’t hate you. You killed me

without a gun to your head, left it be.

The moon rises, flowers die before bloom.

I place the depth of the lake between me and you.

I wish he had saved me –

Or at least seen what you made of me.