I put my fragile heart
Into your clumsy hands.

When you broke it,
As I knew you would,
I looked on with silent acceptance.
I picked up my heart,
Now tiny shards of glass,
Some reflecting your visage,
Crushed them into dust,
And dyed them with colorful words
That I rubbed against my body,
Wrote across the page,
And then threw into the sea.

I made my heartbreak
Into something beautiful,
And I am thankful
For you-
My unrequited love,
My forever muse,
Who’s inspired over
One hundred poems,
And who will inspire
A hundred more after.

My love for you
Is the most beautiful poem
I have ever written,
And it doesn’t make a sound:
It was not made to be listened to;
It was made to be felt.

Soon Enough

img_0758It’s illogical-
One day you’re staring at him,
Running your fingers through his hair
And you can’t imagine your life
Without this,
And it feels like it could always be
You and him,
And it would be enough.

It doesn’t make sense-
How could something that felt
So real,
So pure,
So honest,
Be all in your head?

You try to accept it,
And you have no choice,
Because life keeps going,
But you never forget,
And some days you hope
You wake up from
This horrible nightmare-
The one you told him about,
Where he leaves you and
Falls in love with someone else.

And you wish he was there
To tell you
“That’s never gonna happen, babe”-
But it did, babe;
You did.

You lived through your fear,
And you’re still alive;
You’re resilient.
Soon enough,
You won’t cry so much;
Soon enough,
You’ll be thankful you didn’t get
What you wanted most;
Soon enough,
You’ll even feel lucky.


There I was,
Extended on the warm sand
With the hot sun pressed up
Against my skin,
Barely covered with lavender-
Colored fabric.

Alone again.

I wear it proudly:
I do not feel wanting.
This is the way it has
Always been.

I walk up to the ocean,
My greatest fear,
The great unknown.
I want it to envelop my body
And wash away
The leaving:

The times they told me
I was deserving of more
As they walked away
And hoped someone else
Would do the job.

But there is no one else
More deserving;
There is only me.
I am deserving of myself,
And I am no longer waiting;
I am going to the water,
I am going to live,
Even if I have to do the
Frightening things alone.

The sand pulls me closer,
The waves tower over me,
And I dive in.

The Giving Kind 

One day I brought you up again
And my mother said to me,
“You know, I do think
He loved you,
And I think he still
Loves you now,
But you were too precious
To him that he kept you
Hidden from everyone else,
Just as he hides himself.”

She may be right,
But you did not love me,
At least not in the real way-
The way that changes you.
Your love for me was a love
For yourself:
You loved that I loved you
And wanted to make you
Feel good.
Sometimes I did,
And sometimes I didn’t.

The way I loved you was real:
It had nothing to do with what
You did for me.
I loved you in action:
I tried to gather your dreams
In the palms of my bloody hands
To make you happy.

I believed in the good in you
And the person you could be
Even when you faltered,
And you hated when I
Pointed it out to you,
And accused me of not
Loving you at all,
But we are most critical
Of those we love
Because we believe in their
Ability to be the best versions of themselves.

It still hurts that you couldn’t love me
The way I loved you,
But I am thankful
For the chance to have loved at all,
And I hope you get to experience
What that is like.


My desire to be clean
Has been outweighed
By my habit to wash myself
In the dirt:
I think I am over it,
When I feel piercing ocean water
Wash over my feet
And provocative rain fall
On my head,
And I swear I am born again
From the womb of the
Life I have made for myself.
I am free and happier
Than I ever was
When you were here,
But you are the soil under my fingernails,
From my attempt to
Sow and nurture you
Into my future;
I never wanted anything
More than I wanted you,
But now I want myself,
And I am ready to start sowing anew.

Our Chapter

I’m not sure how to
Rid myself of it.
I thought closing chapters
Would be easier-
I would simply turn the page
And find a blank slate-
But the ink of our story
Bleeds through the entire book,
And I have to find a way
To keep adding to it,
Making sure to avoid the marks
That you have left
Because I am becoming confused
About where you end and I begin,
And where our story finishes.
This book is a beautiful mess-
Ink smeared by the lives
That have touched mine-
And I am learning to love it
All the more.