Moths

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My light’s been flickering
in and out

in and out.

It’s hard to know if the flame
is fed or killed by the winds
blowing through my lungs.

I’m coming back to this light, my light,
after months of shedding it,
unassumingly, for others,
for you.

I’m trying to hold tight
as the shadows tangle
around the flame,
trying snuff out
each burning ember.

I want to give light,
but I need to keep some
for the fairies sleeping in tree galls
and under mushrooms;
for the fireflies at midnight; and
for my burning chest
and tired limbs.

I’m circling my light
as if a brown moth
dancing in worship
of the unknown
and unseen.

Some light may slip through
to shine for you, for them,
but she’s my lighthouse,
guiding me across
this glistening sea.

Today, today

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Today, I awoke to silence.
The morning slowly crawled
through my window
as I watched light dance
across each plant leaf.

I thought of you as
I moved just as slow as the light,
finding comfort in the ease
of unhurried days.

The morning passed faster,
speeding up as the humidity
settled heavy over the house,
thick like a damp sweater.

I felt distant from the world,
floating a few feet above the ground
as I went through my day.

I read some pretty poetry
and watched some pretty videos
and I thought of you.

My eyes felt like really deep wells,
so deep the buckets struggled
to carry water up to the surface.

Each attempt only teased
the drying landscape.

I plan to sink into the sands of sleep,
hoping to fall into a world of dreams
that don’t make me more sad tomorrow.

Dream-me > me

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A part of me wishes I was more like the self I encounter in dreams —

you know,
the girl with unwavering loyalty and tactical agility,
who could climb two stories and bust through a window
to save your life or

the girl who mixed poisons on a hillside to survive the eco-apocalypse
while acid rain corroded the van’s roof or

the girl who led a defense against zombie-bears
mere minutes after being chased by a tiger on the beach or

the girl who found love in open arms,
no matter how often she felt like a sham.

Maybe I am these things:
minor combinations of tactical skill and emotional availability
to embrace the complicated life this is without the clear danger signs
of radioactive material, broken glass, frenzied animals, or deafening hallways.

Maybe, just maybe, I am worth saving, like the dream on the beach
where the tiger nearly got me — minus the tiger and the ocean.

Maybe

I am worthy

of something in this life.

Looking back

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There’s a smiley face,
drawn with pencil,
on the frame of the window
that peers into the backyard.

I may have written
about him before,
but it’s been so long
and time’s incessant
circles make it impossible
to remember.

I drew him
in high school, amidst
AP composition homework
and 20 minute naps
and 3 a.m. alarms.

He isn’t exactly
a friendly face, falseness
exuding from his turned up mouth.

He reminds me of sleepless nights,
mind-numbing bus rides,
and ever too much
angry silence.

I yearn to erase him,
to rid him from existence,
but isn’t there something to
allowing momentos of the past
rattle around in the present?

One silly request

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I want someone to write a song about me.
It doesn’t have to be much, hell,
it doesn’t even have to be positive,
I just want to be memorialized in tune.

Could you do that for me, one day?
You could learn the piano or the drums —
perhaps compose the entire piece
using boomwhackers.

I’ve had this dream for a while now.
I’m not sure where it comes from
or why I think a song would mean something
more than words strung together with rhythm.

It’s definitely a romanticised idea,
even if the song paints me in horrible
colors and in harsh light.

I am open to the scrutiny
because of the joy it would bring
to know someone could create art
from their, mine, our
emotions.

So, will you?
Perhaps it’s just a line or two,
something to hum
while waiting for an elevator.

Ha, what if it was the perfect
elevator song — but with words?
Many words rhyme with my name,
and those that don’t could be good too.

Roadside crosses

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Crosses and fake flowers
decorate the roadsides here.

It seems like I can’t drive more
than 2 miles before seeing
another white marker,
a distant yet familiar name,
and the colors of the dead.

Do you ever wonder, like I,
about these deaths?
Do you examine the curvature
of the road, the posted speed limit,
or the potential road slickness
in the rain?

I hear metal crunching,
airbags deploying, and
sirens when I think too
much about it.

What feels worse
is I imagine myself,
moreover see myself,
in every wreck.

I am the blank face,
the broken legs,
the fractured ribs.

I am the faulty engine,
the swerving truck,
the oil-rain mixture.

There’s a great sadness
that hangs over these roads.
It’s nearly suffocating.

All I can hope to do
is play my music a little louder,
roll the windows down
a little further,
and say a word of peace
to every lost soul
on every road.

Oh so pretty

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When I squint,
the lights strung around
my bed look like stars,
each emitting a tiny halo
of brightness.

They remind me of many nights
under the open sky.
My senses recall
music and wine and blankets,
dewy grass and owls,
violent laughter in the darkness,
sweatshirts and hammocks.

Each tangible and nonphysical element
lingers in my mind, sending goosebumps
up each arm, reminding me of past joys.

Everything seems tough, right now,
as if an extra layer of grease rests
on every baking sheet needing to be washed,
but I think these memories are meant
to remind me of simple moments
I never anticipated happening,
as if each light were a beacon
from the past pointing me forward.

Not your love letter

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An app recommended me to write a love letter today.
You came to mind, and then you and you.
I debated for a while on who these words
were meant for and what exactly I wanted to say.

With you (and you)
my words fell short, as if I had nothing new,
nothing original to share.

And with you, you knew of my
care and thus my love, and I could easily say the words
to you as you said them to me.

I thought more about the love letter,
fully acknowledging the somewhat silliness of
obeying an algorithm in a computer.

It dawned on me that there is one person,
a person more unknown to you than me,
that I never wrote a love letter to.

I sat, back bent slightly, mulling over the words.
It felt strange at first, but soon my brain
tucked away the ungraceful thoughts.
Words like care and amazement and spunky
took the place of fearful and distant and spineless.

A cloud of sentences
floated above my head, glittering like a sky of stars.
I felt flushed and honored
to know these truths and feel this love.

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This is a collection of moments gathered from a recent, mini road-trip.

I.
The windmills look like people
standing stoic on the hillside,
waiting for lovers to come home.

II.
The sky, airbrushed
in oranges and pinks and blues,
reminded me of the beach,
right where the water
swallows the sand.

III.
I imagined standing
in the eye of a hurricane.
Grey wind blowing around me.

IV.
The lights flickered in and out,
as if the city could turn off
with the snap of my fingers.