poem

The Midnight House

The night fades into me
or perhaps it’s the other way around,
but it makes no difference

because I always end up here,
on the other side of sunshine
between the hush of four walls
with scorched palms
and black feathers
in clenched fists.

I always end up here,
in the red room
with amber glow and body dust
where the nightmare never screams
and the worry whispers terror so loud
it makes the morning seem so far away.

I always end up here,
with nostrils caked in soot and ash
where it stinks of singed hair
and burnt skin folding in on memories;
where the door is ajar
and my eyes are glued shut.

The things that wander in.

The Wind

If you ask me about hope,
I’ll tell you about the days
when it knocks on my door
and I don’t answer.
When it comes to soften edges
and feed phantoms;
when it’s the cruel caller,
the corpse at the door;
when it waits dead.
On those days,
I don’t want what it brings,
so I become the wind
and I declare the storm.
I don’t want what it brings,
so I tear the roof from this house
and the sky falls in.
Old wounds shake loose.

Fetching Seeds

If you ask me about
being strong,
or resilient,
or brave,

I’ll tell you about unfolding edges
and rebuilding
from a million little pieces
despite the wreck that remains;

and digging the dirt to bedrock
to fracture and shatter,
splinter and break.

I’ll tell you about going downward
and inward, and meeting with sorrow
and speaking to pain;

and when hell spills from your bones,
that you’ll fetch seeds from the
dried-up darkness and grow gardens
from graves.

September Nights

I miss those September nights.
Being soft,
floating
between your smile
and the things
I can’t explain,
like how some things end
before they ever begin,
or how something
so beautiful
can be so destructive.
I’ve looked love
straight in the eyes,
the sweetest heartache,
dressed in white.
I’ve rearranged my brain
just to wrap my heart around it
and somehow,
I still find myself
bound to you
in the softness of those
September nights.

I thought we’d make it,
I really did.
But fate had other plans for us
in the end.

Ghost Story

I thought I saw you
out of the corner of my eye,
but it was just your ghost
playing tricks on my mind.

Your ghost lives
in my peripheral vision.
It whispers in my ear,
I’m still here.

It speaks to me through
muffled voices in crowded
places, in and around the
everyday shuffling.

It makes contact through
the eyes of countless strangers,
who I don’t really think know
what it is to be haunted or surely,
they would turn away and
spare me your gaze.

I Am Extraordinary

I am extraordinary.
I am a wreck
and a masterpiece,
in equal parts.
I am a warrior,
I will get through
no matter what it takes.
It won’t be easy,
but I am determined
and unstoppable.
I will overcome
and rebuild.
I will bloom from the decay,
and I will thrive.
I will burn, break, and bleed.
I will wear my scars proud,
and I will rise from the ruins—
not unscathed,
but free.

Dismantled

There was something in the way
she dismantled herself—
the way she pulled fire from the sun
and burned;
the way she lay face down
in the rubble, breathing in
ash and despair;
the way she tasted the destruction
before she carved herself anew
from the black sky.

This is an excerpt from a piece I’ve written for my book.

Wake The Spirits

Won’t you meet me in the after
where I remain and you are gone?
Where there are no angels, devils
or ghosts, but an empty house—
won’t you come?

Won’t you meet me in the void
where my heart betrays me
and hope survives?
Where the earth is frozen
and the sky is white—
won’t you come?

Won’t you whirl your wind around me
or place a whisper on my pillow?
Won’t you leave a song outside my door
to break the silence in this house?

Won’t you meet me in the winter
when it’s midnight and turned cold?
When I’ve outgrown the void
and outlived the hope,
when my soul believes you’re gone?

Won’t you meet me by the old maple,
where you left me when we were young?
We’ll tell stories and wake the spirits:
I want to know what you’ve been up to—
won’t you come?

Obliterate Me

To the night I say:
Obliterate me.
Let this quiet brutality
save me.

I undo myself here,
at the edge of my being;
like a hovering apparition—
a dweller.

I come because the woman
in the wall is whispering again:

The longer you stay
The stronger the cage

I come for the ones
who brought me here—
the ones who came
before me.

I come with little horrors
embedded in my bones.
I come to break chains,
to part ways with
patterns and pain.

I come to sit with the
worn and wise ones, long-lost
but certain there is more.

I come here to shatter,
to free shadows,
to breathe.

I Still Weep for the Wreckage, I Confess

Mother said to never let
passion leave without you,
but sometimes you don’t notice
until it gets away from you,
until it’s beyond the horizon,
where distance can only be
measured in misery.

I am half here, half there
half alive, half dead
by the time I notice it’s gone.

I am busy chasing ghosts
when it slips quietly out the side door.
I am teetering between
reality and dream.
I am mourning bones.

The thought of breaking free
from comfort’s pillowy embrace
doesn’t even cross my mind.

I am anchored here,
in the dark oblivion,
long past ruination.

Mother said to dwell here
long enough to make your peace,
but leave before the old pain
sings to you like a love song.