These words are
an empty room,
a desert–
in its vacancy.

I am hollow
and so are these lines
and all those
which walked this space before.

We are vast
and void of all
that means anything,
so we wait,
and hope
above all
that something will come,
arrive with something
to fill us up,
to make whole
these caverns echoing
with longing
that have done nothing
but starve our broken hearts.




I’d let you
destroy me,
devour me,
pick me clean.

I’d waste away
as you bleed me,
your knives
slicing shallow cuts
in my armor,

and I’d beg for more.

I’d crawl to you
on my knees
and ask for new wounds,
new injuries to endure
for you.

I’d let you burn me,
scar me until
I’m blind and blackened,
until my fingers,
my face blurs
into nothing,

and I’d plead for more.

You ruin me
with every word

and I will always crave more.





Photo Credit: gilad at deviantart.com

We burned
on the edge
of beautiful,
our flames
raging against
the dying light.

You held my hand,
your skin warm against me,
and the witchcraft
in your lips
lit my skin on fire.

We built an inferno
in homage to our love
knowing only embers would remain
even when everything else
was gone.




Someone Else 

Photo Credit: Olga-Zervou at deviantart.com

I’m lost
and the pieces I leave
pile up,
fan out,
confuse and rearrange.

I’m broken
and I wish I could be
someone else,
someone like Maria,
like the girl
who talks to angels,
Diana or Maggie Mae,
instead of me,
this half person
who keeps
until nothing is left
but smoke and ash,
dust in heaps
masquerading as loss.

I keep reaching
for straws
hoping one
will reach back,
hold me for awhile
while I dream
of days
where running was okay
and sleep was frequent.

I’m blind
and falling
and you can’t seem
to catch me
so I’ll let someone else
just so I can feel like
someone else
for a second.





What the fuck is wrong with people? Follow through–nobody fucking has it and it’s like they don’t care. Like when people ghost each other. What the fuck is that? One day, we’re friends or lovers or acquaintances even, and the next, you’re gone, vanished like the fucking rain in Florida–here one minute and gone the next. No explanation, no message, just gone. It’s bullshit. It’s weak and soft, but that seems to be who we are now, what we are–empty people floating in and out, disappearing and appearing only to regret and curse every choice, every move as error, as wrong, and we don’t fucking face it. Instead, we ghost. We leave people stranded in midair, their fingers bleeding from holding on to hope they might be saved, that we might come back, but we don’t, do we? No. We’re already gone, ghosts, memories forever unstable, faltering in their unknowing, in the absence of meaning, value, worth. We disappear, they disappear, and we think it’s okay, fine, kosher, because that’s how it’s done these days, but it’s bullshit. It’s all fucking bullshit because we no longer mean anything. Nothing means anything if vanishing is acceptable. We are all such broken people that we can’t even explain or call or write. We just go. They just go, and we’re all left in fucking pieces.





I’ll never learn
to stop spilling
all these crass piles
of cradled thoughts
that bottle-feed me
portions of my past self.

I’ll never try
to stop writing
these slippery lines
of stubborn verse
that fill me
with vacant memories
of times when I knew myself,

or try to escape
the jagged moments
I pressed control,
when my hands
were frozen
to my
branched-out pain,

*system reboot*

yet it somehow remains
in a murky pool of
washed-up contempt,
and dandelion wallpapers
clinging to the
digital venom that’s
choking the life
from me –

from all the
lost chances
and icy minutiae
of indecision.

I’m bare,
ready in my resolve
to move,
to run,
to go
even when forward
seems lost,
and the moments
beyond screech wildly
for me to find
my spine.

I will search
even when the agony
buries me
in fuzzy pieces
of the past,
and the weight
of fear smothers
my indifference.

I will not burn out.


This is a collaborative piece between me and my talented friend, Christopher Rupley. He is one of the most amazing writers I know, so check him out.




Dying in Technicolor 

Photo Credit: keep-breathing at deviantart.com

It guts you,
leaves you strewn
across floors,
in technicolor,
your vibrations
in oranges
and reds,
washing thunderclouds
in blue paint,
tearing holes
in whole places,
and leaving pigment
where your bones
should be.

True love kills
while it awakens,
deals pain
in parallel
with pleasure,
and it hurts.
You bleed,
and it hurts,

but the sky,

it’s so beautiful,
and you watch
the yellows
and greens
float by
as you die,
your heartbeat
slowly fading
in your hand.

But its okay,
you think,
because you can
see everything,
feel everything
so very much
in this one second
that it’s okay
to only get this one.





Photo Credit: CristianaLeone at deviantart.com

When I’m with you,
my skin is electricity,
the air is lightning,
your voice a rumble
like thunder
in my veins.

Every nerve ending
with raw need
and the world glows
in carnival colors,
sparks soaring
through invisible space.

I can feel everything,
every piece of this moment.

When I’m with you,
I am bright.
We are bright,
and everything else is dark.

This is the feeling
that makes life beautiful,
worthy of living
because you get to live
in the color
and the gray doesn’t matter.



He Looked at Her

And then he looked at her. 

After the talk had died away, he directed his gaze to her, exploring her face, her soul with his eyes, and she could feel him inside her, his words, his fingers, his mind. Her insides flipped over, and warmth spread out from her bellybutton and down her legs. Her heart hammered nails into her ribs, and she wondered how long she could go without this feeling, this heat in her sex as well as her head, this white-knuckled, heart-breaking tangle of desire to be known, to feel him inside all her dark places, to hear him whisper in her head. He stole each one of her breaths like a dream-catcher with nets and cages, and she thought she might die if he didn’t touch her. She thought she might die anyway, curled up in frozen pieces, because she would have to live without this intensity, this fire that danced in her belly, squirmed through her insides until the world exploded, and all that was left was him.


I was with someone today, and I’m trying to describe how it was, how it made me feel. I want to capture that feeling of desire mixed with familiarity mixed with the unknown, how in one moment, you can feel like someone is seeing your soul, and they don’t turn away. Instead, they look deeper and build a fire inside you with all of their wanting, their insatiable curiosity to know all the bits that make you. I told him I wished I could describe it, that feeling, but I’ve fallen short. At least he’ll never see it.



Lunch Date: A Conversation in My Head 

“I was thinking about something you said.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. You asked if we’d ever been just friends, and I’ve been thinking about that.”

“And what have you concluded?”

“I think we’ve always been whatever this is. I mean, when I first met you, I was attracted to you. I remember that.”

“So do I.”

“I remember being around you a lot, and then I remember this.”


“Yes. This thing we have where we say but don’t do, talk but don’t move. This ever-present feeling of anticipation. This more than just friends thing we have. I don’t think we’ve ever been just friends.”

“It took you a long time to realize that.”

“I know.”

“So what now?”

“I’m not sure. I know you’ve left a void and he’s sort of filling it.”

“That’s dangerous, you know?”

“I know.”

“You’re going to do it anyway?”

“Maybe. Probably. It’s not like I can have you.”

“Who said you can’t?”

“You did.”

“Maybe we couldn’t have that, but maybe we can still be something.”

“What? More than friends?”

“Haven’t we always been?”


Tomorrow, I’m having lunch with someone who has always held a place inside me. We are tumultuous and dangerous together, and I thought it would be one way until we spoke today. Now, I’m unsure what to expect. This is my way of releasing my expectations so that I can be open to reality.