Radio Silence

You deserve better.
That's what they always say,
your friends
and those other friends
on the other side of the bridge
(the part that's not on fire).
I always wanted those
Technicolor dreams,
those sharp clichés
that click off the tongue
in quick succession,
like little bullets.
I fucking hate what they say.
I hate it because
they don't actually know.
I want them to actually know.
Are you better for me?
Do you know who is?
Will I meet him at Acme
next to the asparagus?
Will we get high together
at a tiny party?
Will he tease me for how I hold
my cigarette
(a little too close to others)?
Will he help me color my hair
to match my frustration,
all Technicolor and everyday?
I don't want to hurt
but I hurt everyday.
I want a love that pauses
between breaths
to admire a fragile moment.
Because I am fragile.
Because I deserve to be seen.
I deserve better.

Steal Everything

I can be found

where the burglar

and copy cat break bread.

I can be found

ducking

once the plates are thrown,

where flinching

is a personality trait

and not a reaction.

Each measure of

protection

is not enough,

and houses are not homes

when you don't feel safe.

"But if you value safety

so much

you will close everyone off,"

he said.

"No one believes you."

The sun warms the kitchen--

the knives, all glittering

in the sink.

Compassion is competitive

and everyone just talks 

about themselves.

The burglar and the copy cat

steal everything I love.

Steal everything

until I am a shell 

and not a muse.

Running Late

Tiny red spiders
explore freckled
landscape,
ground like any other,
and I shake like the earth.
Upon closer inspection,
I discover dozens.
They get tangled up
in peachfuzz
and roses
and bite when
the wind of my breath
throws them off.
I feel guilty, so I stop.
I no longer
recognize my skin
so I let them have it.
They can have it,
running late,
running nowhere.