There will be nights like this
I was never very good at promises
the windows are shaking from the wind
I tucked you into bed
I’m afraid sometimes (of the maybes)
haunted by the food I cannot digest
I kissed your naked arm
the dishes unwashed
have you ever been afraid of the dark?

I laugh hysterically uncontrollably unceasingly
the tears rolling down my reddened cheek
tomorrow this will be a dream
I’ll lose you, I think
left already, right?
I am afraid of the light.

I swallow it down with a glass of water
a cup of coffee still cold
I pour in a little milk and stir
there are no promises here
just maybe.

I remind you that you’re perfect I love you like the best run-on sentence the days bleed together and the only constant is your flesh and bones, real like the nightmares that wake me up at night.


almond milk flat white

I’m not very good at painting nails; too impatient to wait for the paint to dry; cracked polish on short uneven nails. I’m not very good at loving you; our arguments are dipped in wet concrete, slathered on the walls; my laughter hurts you sometimes, I know. I’m not very good at writing; spend too much time reading things I’ll never use; spend too much time thinking, overthinking things. I’m not very good at this whole thing; my dirty hair crumpled into messy buns; my ripped tights holding billowing thighs; my smile uneven.

Our fridge is full of leftovers I will later throw out; various layers of mould collecting in old tupperware containers; two pots holding food I don’t want to eat for lunch. My high heeled boots are uncomfortable; I need new shoe laces; I need more leg strength to hold myself up; I find myself teetering even on even ground. I have three unentitled blank documents opened on my computer; the blank pages reminding me that I have not thought yet about the emptiness of possibility.

The deepest conversation I have had this week is with a Starbuck employee who remembers my name; although she read it off my cup, I am impressed; she wishes me well as I exit, exist.

static panic

your body cannot put me to sleep
our limbs intertwined
my muffled tears
can’t wake you
shouldn’t wake you
but I hear the crooked laughter
there are shadows in the dark
I said wrong, can I right it?

It’s lonely here with multiple bodies
the quiet haunting
echoes of lovely affection
a bully who is not you
I am the rotten egg
the soiled sheets

you love me already
how am I to love myself?
I am the pained panic
my thoughts static
while the clock says half past two

no protection here

poetry became secondary
(the left glove
put on, but not nearly as important
as the right one)

he asked me a question with his eyes
told me
there is garlic in your hands
I don’t think
(but I do)

this is where the doing becomes
sifted through my hands
becomes empty salad bowls
your laughter in between
the floorboards of my heart

has the coffee gone cold?
automatic timer gone off?
sirens blazing through thin windows
cracked knuckles

the romance of untied shoes

borrowed closet space

somewhere in the closet
I have ripped jeans and a broken heart
hanging on a chair
(it’s a big closet, trust me)
all my shoes are lined up on the top shelf
asking me to dance

I haven’t stopped to think about my ticking toes
I have wasted my breath trying to kiss you
when all you wanted was a peck;

my nails are painted a deep red
pained though they are
I skinned my knees running after

lost and found

sometime in the last year
I found out that my tears could dry
lost in the woods, on the street, between sheets
emptied out my soul
on paper, on parchment, on canvas, on fabric
halfway across the province
laughter brings me back again

the bitterness of coffee on my lips
contrasted with the sweetness of chocolate
and the twitching that comes with
all this knowing

I never thought that I could feel this
all this alright
reality doesn’t hold me back anymore

[it all began
around the same time that “I” became “we”]


And I wonder if there is enough space
between here and there
the dirt under my fingernails
the corner of your lips
the bitter taste of
I love you
unheard and sprawled across my bedroom floor
your head in my lap
your hair smells like discarded christmas tree
the reflection makes left right.

we keep holding
in the future we’ll know
whether there is a future here.