Month: December 2013

our glass jar

when the fire breaks the skyline, we’ll begin again, rising from our ashen ruins like a phoenix.

we’re made of star stuff. we’re composed of the bits and pieces of all the lightning bugs that watch over us in our glass jar.

when the fire breaks the skyline, i’ll hope they remembered to leave air holes, because we’re all going down, baby, and there’s no stopping us now.

this is our litmus test, our infinite hypothetic, but we’ll never make it completely around the swing set because gravity keeps us down. and fuck physics, i believe we can do anything, but there are rules to breaking things up.

there are rules to these things that can’t be broken because everything’s categorizable, succinctly purposed in its raison de vivre.

our star stuff is connected, a galactic pas de deux, and i can’t look you in the eyes as we dance through the smoke and flames when our walls come crashing down, because it’s too much. there are feelings and they crawl up my veins like the itch that drops blood on my pillowcase, hiding the gravity around my wrist.

we twist and turn, our damned grace entwining in our wake. there’s no air; we’re too far gone. the atmosphere’s burning up, but i still can’t look you in the eyes.

i’d drink you in too deeply, and i’m trying not to think about death so much any more, but when times get hard, we deflect to what we know. and what i know is i don’t touch, and what i don’t touch won’t crack, and tht which doesn’t crack is still gold.

after the fire’s broken, and our love’s faded through the oxygen we need, something new will beat its wings.


Blood on my pillow

I’ll write poems about you, I call. Poems about the girl who flies.

She soars through the sky like a balloon I had finally let go off. Nothing but a dot of red in the distance, her string faded into the clouds.

The ties that bind have faded into heartbeats, running away from the tremors that shake our cores.

Protected in my ribs, my heart stutters a weak call. Telegraphed morse code, short short short, long long long, short short short.

I don’t want you to save me, but I know there’s blood running down my back because there’s an itch that I had to scratch, and now I’m leaking through a tear in the fabric of our being.


If there’s blood on my pillow, it doesn’t matter. I don’t remember the first balloon I let go, just that there’d be more to come.

Your you

i would change it, but because it’s you, i can’t. because no matter how much i might try to pretend to the public that i was writing about a general you, that you was inspired by your you.

and your you likes what you like, and i will not devalue that or take that away from you, because fuck labels. fuck society trying to tell you who to like, what to like, how to like, where to like, when to like, why to like. because it’s your fucking life, and you have to do you.

because if you don’t do you, i don’t know how i can justify the rest of us doing us. because you’re you. i’m me. she’s she. he’s he. they’re they. xe is xe. and nothing anyone tries to say or do will change that.

so i cling. i cling to the tiny slivers of hope that pass me by, like frogger’s logs on a river.