Things to forget

“most days i am a museum of things i want to forget.”  –  E.E. Scott

A half-eaten candy bar

hides in the depths

of my fridge.

It has me

in its fisheye regard,


my lack of willpower.


A Loyal Blue paint can,

rests heavy

on the floor of my closet.

It seeks out

raw nerves

of my middle toe,


its impatience to die.


A box of toys


in the gathering dust

of my attic.

Their eyes follow

as I enter their room,

pleading for freedom,

condemning my abandon.


A foggy mason jar,

sits at the edge

of my night stand,

sealed tight.

It looks on tenderly,

holding an atmosphere

for my screams,

a vomiting of anguish.


A darkness clings

to the underside

of my eyes,

a reminder of bad choices,

an invitation for scrutiny

digging deep

in my reflection.


I carry a vastness

I forget to see,


I never forget

to carry.



Book Fair

There are piles,

never rows,

but piles and piles of books

surrounding restless people,

ambling in serpentine manner

heads bowed

hands hovering, to cop a feel

of other worlds.

I, another ambler,

touch each stack

leaving traces of myself

on their binds,

grounding myself

in the somatic sense

of miracles.

There exists


an intermission

of bargain

and barter

and the journey


with precious



My home

now carries

a cluster of miracles

I stack vertically

never horizontally

to commemorate

their cradle.

Let in

I learned from an early age that love meant sacrifice.

Love meant that you had to give up much

of what you are to be with someone

who made you more than what you were.

If done right,

it means everything

to two people.

But it’s hard.

Really hard.

I’ve been building myself

since before I even knew what a “self” was.

I built all these defenses to not get hurt.

I built all these pathways

to know how to always feel good

and all the ways to instantly crash

and feel sorry for myself.

I made a home inside myself,

wiring it with superstitions and poetry,

insulating my home against insecurity.


to break all these layers

to let someone in

is not something

done consciously.

Loving someone

is to let them

slip in.

Or break in.

Depending on how one falls in love.




there’s a need of mine

to follow.

Not just anything or anyone.

But the right thing.

And the right time.

And the right one.


when you looked over

and asked me to tell you something,

I couldn’t stop staring

into the blue of your eyes.

Because in them,

I had found my own.

In them, I realized

I wasn’t alone anymore.

And my heart seized

and I froze.

And you saw the fear

and understood.

How I didn’t know,

but you looked away and said,

this is the worst thing to say to you right now

but I need you

to need me

like I’m going to need you

in our future.

And I got up and ran.

Not because I didn’t need you.

But because two realizations

in one moment

is definitive cause

to run away.

So I did.

But now I write

to tell you

that I need you

more than my ‘self’ allows

and enough to know

that needing

is following

and you are finally

the right one

to let in.


Love your Adam’s apple

Love your blue eyes, bubbles of thought, boxy flannels

Love how cold both our noses get

Love your devotion for your dogs, your deviousness, your dominance

Love how your ego unfurls when I twirl in your favorite red

Love your funny fables and your failures, your falsehoods and your face

Love the games you play and the life you built with your gambles

Love your heart, your heart, your beautiful, beautiful heart

Love your insanity because you repeat, my love, you repeat until you can breathe again

Love the jungle beneath your clothes

Love the kindness you show, not always like you should but surprisingly like you suddenly remembered you could

Love the way you love

….and you love magnificently

Love how you wear nobility like it’s a recent discovery

Love how you smell of oranges, freshly squeezed in a farm somewhere

Love how you push and pull until I hate that I love you so much

Love your pride in your queerness

Love the rope you hang yourself on until I rescue you

Love how you start things, how you soothe, how you say what you mean when you look at me that way

Love your tongue and its ways, your tenderness and surrender, your thrust and power, your truth and its hope

Love how you’re still unfinished

Love your victories, your careful violence, your virtues and visions for our future

Love how the world looks at you

Love how you’re a xerox of your brother yet you think you’re nothing alike

Love you and only you forever

Love the feel of your zipper between my fingers as we slowly start something

P.S. I love you and only you forever

A need

I have

a constant


a need

for comfort,

for relief,

for a band-aid

to put on

my bleeding soul.


I find none

out there

in the wilderness

of humanity,

not a soul

who understands,

who quietens,

who gives up

their defense

to touch

the fucked-up inside

of me.


So I write

to attain solace

of the moment,

to cull

my soul,

to recognize

pieces of me

that stays

out there,


in the hearts

of wildings.



Fairy Lights

The room felt stuffy. Her nose hurt to breathe but she inhaled anyway. The sun had set an hour ago leaving the room in shadows. She rose from her stupor to click on the bottle. She remembered how excited he was when he received the tiny box from Amazon. The little bundle of wires and unlit dots sparkled in his fingers.

The bottle he had kept knowing even then its emptiness would still have function. She watched as he arranged and rearranged the wires in haphazard fashion, winding its ends around the bottle’s neck. Bemused, she said it was a vision worthy of Pinterest. He rolled his eyes and clicked in the batteries. He grinned as the bottle lit up, all bright and hopeful. He held it gingerly up to her face and said it looked like the bottle had gobbled up real live fairies.

But now those same lights were dim. She knew the batteries would give out soon. She didn’t care. He was gone and he took that bright hope with him. She would let it die like he did. If only there was a battery of hope’s replenish for her heart. But instead she was left with his dying fairy lights.

Dear God


Dear God,

you’re not here


many see you

and act

on your will,

forgoing theirs,


in your name

to absolve themselves

of their chaos

and blame.


Dear God

you were never here


you were written

to focus fear

to light darkness

to shift burdens,

a catch-all

that never



Dear God,

you were always here

and yet

you never are.