Youth made a ruin out of me,
a mess of creation, collecting regrets
in my collarbones
my hands still smell of chemicals,
attempting to clean away the versions
of myself riddled with remorse;
the reality is that
reparation may be marred with
guilt when atoning for the
pain I dealt,
but your forgiveness may never be
felt within these defective veins
My lips are bruised with sorry, but
the hurt they once caused



Emotions pulse through my
ventricles like rivers to
the wide ocean; the open
roads swallow me whole as
this train passes through your town
and my soul feels your ghost everywhere
I go
Nothing has ever bruised me like
your memory and this small city rips my
heart to shreds, left to bleed out
and be buried alongside
the people we never
let ourselves be


I hope you’re not reading this: I hope you’re deep in sleep, held in arms that feel like great castle walls to keep yourself in. I hope she smells like your favourite memories and tastes like better days to come. I hope you’re writing about the way her hair drapes around sun-kissed shoulders and the shade of her lips in the morning light. I hope your reflection looks brightest in her eyes. I hope your spine is no longer holding the fluid of melancholy and that the nights are filled only with stars, so the view of the water from your balcony is always illuminated. I hope that your days are punctuated by kisses and all the seconds sound like your favourite songs. I hope you’re miles away, dreaming of her, caressing the softness of absolute bliss. I hope you’re not reading this.

Exit Plan

I can’t stop thinking about
how this turned out

Sometimes, the mornings
are filled with more doubt than
the nights, I have been
moving around so much lately
while everyone else is
“settling down”
getting married
having kids – time
is slowly getting away
from me

Every inch of this aching head
is drowning in twenty three
years of exhausting
sentimentality; my skin
splits at the ghost of
your memory, your fingerprints
tattooed over the places
you touched me


They said to just “sleep on it”
as though these demons
cease to exist in bed sheets
and dreams, and as though
the morning sun can
fix this weary mess of a
human being

I can’t stop thinking about
how it should be


Last night, I was writing poetry in my head
as the alcohol swirled
through my nervous system and
memories of you hit me
harder than the tequila as
though nothing is strong enough to black you out
anymore — jumbled
words circling in my blood, tangling
the heartstrings still tied
to disconnected lines that lead to
your fractured prose
Once upon a time, I was
your muse but
I am getting too old for these hangovers
when we exist worlds apart but your
poison is still pooling in my veins


As hard as I try to fill
the vacant place you left,
you linger in the spaces
between my fingers and the
moments between each heavy pulse
of memories swelling in my head.
I’ve hung above my bed the severed
heartstrings I tied to your wrists as reminders
that love is timeless
but life isn’t a game and
you will lose chances you staked
every bet on — but
you, my darling,
were such a lovely risk to take.
Think of me sometimes
when your heart feels dead;
remember how much time
and luck
some people never get.


Falling in love again with a star across
the darkest night club floors
in a sea of bodies pressed against
loose limbs and blood pumping to
an incessant bass line, weeks
of unsaid words hanging from the
ceiling and throbbing through the
numbed corridors of my mind
where you are the only thing worth
lingering on. Dazzled by a million
lights that can’t compete with the
shine in your soul, I’m drunk on
endless possibilities; in a constant
hangover of existing after being
held in your arms, never letting
go of sweet memories that have
poisoned my nervous system with
a stinging souvenir of heartache. But,
my eyes will always adore you, pulled
by the power of your presence when
everyone else blurs into the background.
Even after the black holes consume me,
I will still be holding on to thoughts of you.


I can’t stop thinking about your arm delicately resting over the blanket around my waist as the morning sun crept across our lightly-stirring bodies. No skin contact was needed for my heart to jump through my chest at the slightest touch. My soul has been handled so roughly these past eighteen months, and your sweetness has been sorely needed.

It is so tiring being so full of other people. I remember the feeling of her hand clasped in mine. I remember the way his eyes glittered in the lilac glow of sunset. I remember the cadence of your voice when talking about your absent father.

All of these things are tattooed on the inside of my heart chambers.

But, I forget so easily that those same people don’t remember the songs I love to sing in the car. I forget that they don’t shiver at the sound of my name. I forget that they don’t have scars from where I touched them.
And that is the problem with my entire existence