Sowing these tiny

little holes in the paper,

in the lungs and in the heart,

I stopped numbering.


Each day has slowly stopped.

It doesn’t feel the same anymore.

Love is pain,

heartbreak is rain –

You can fall asleep and

crash violently

to both.


Reopening the wounds,

I found dead doves and

nested cages inside.

Double cracking my boiled heart,

I found emptiness of this

solidly beating nothingness.


Writing letters to my own heart

and flipping through it like pages,

my fingers turned up stuffy noise

and dripped a sickness called heartbreak.


Heavy, deep breaths with a sigh

expressed relief to the audience

but in truth they racked

high upper back stuffed

loops in the lungs.


Who would elicit

deep reds again from these veins turned

scarred blue?

These faces of this layered skin

have a tautology stretched

beyond rugged.


Death is like a full stop

in the middle of a sentence

and I found it everywhere.


In a poem,

I found it burning near metaphors.

In my bruises,

I found it scratching and

insulting the wounds.

In my eyes,

I saw it pinching my sight.

In my heart,

I saw it swinging those pickaxes.


Beautiful things get ugly really quick,

like the hands on the clock,

closing in every second,

every minute

and every hour.

I’ll keep burning my words

for some might read smoke better than flames.


I have coughed up poems.

I have bled smiles.



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