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the ex x


You are a magnet.

Not the kind used in the scripts of rom coms.

But the kind that is both piercing and gravitational.

The kind of magnet that chokes the cords around my windpipe, stronger than any hands every could.

 The kind that pulls you swiftly towards light, before you realize it is only a shadow. 

Or a mirage.


I call myself a writer

but every time I try to plunge at the keyboard with my suffocating

agony, I drift off into a tornado of silence. 

And my hands, full of colour, become soft and dispondant like a runny yolk. 


I want you to know that I can get through a day (or maybe two) without a whisper of your name crawling through me.

I am better at being a alone.

And now, the light of your name on my phone only sends three shocks to my heart.

Not ten.

 I don’t like the weight that I’ve gained. But I can still feel your hands along the map of my hips, complaining that I’m too skinny.

Or that my hair is too red.

Or that I call too much.


And I wonder why the thought of you being here, an arms length from my sanity, is sending me into a coma of nausea. 

Because after all, I will always be worlds away from you. 

You and I are like Pluto and earth.

Orbiting around the sun, and never sharing the same warmth. 





As I find myself,

I don’t find you.

You are now

disapated into a 

swiss holed memory.

The ash that paints

the day to dusk.


the remorse of 

airplanes and I love yous.

I take the Clementine route of


The chosen vacancy;

I forget you. 




alone we grow

I can feel your relief

sink into the pit 

of my unwanted corridors.

The closing click of a corrosive

exchange in in weary words. 

I find myself lost in translation.

You find yourself beneath 

what can not be designed. 

You fade into me for safe keeping.

Snatched from the tangible. 

The creaking corners of our limbs forced to stretch.

Alone we grow. 

Together we dream.





Flushed of scattered thought by a moment of purity.
Hours of waste bridged by days of simple connection.
Foam falls over the cities brighest lights, dimming
the hustle of a New Year into a new us. 
Two minds left to stir in the omniscient suffering or blessing of time.
A wretched heart marinated to mature.
In growth together or growth apart.




This is a poem I wrote over a year ago that I found tucked away in my journal, I’m going to air it out.


The pattern of his sleeve, tiny squares

against the inside of my arm. My cheek, 

his cotton covered chest rising; falling.

Hand upon my hair, in the crook of my neck.

The lightest weight upon my ears, and

the sparks from the base of my spine to it’s peak.

A scattering of voices filter down the hall

Winding towards me, raising. Lilting, the 

laughter bounces through and off the walls.

I know they have awoken. Too loud for me to sleep,

so admit defeat and join the all-too-early harmonies

of clink and jabber.

Waves and waves before me, reach where the golden

surface of the earth I meth, smiling below the vivid,

electric lid of space. Sundried orange leaves, their green

fruits shelled. A private-public paradise of a naked body

beneath a cotton towel. 

Sinking into where I am more than I’ve ever felt. 


Oct. 13th, 2010



Words are all I have left to play with, so be gentle.



That moment when you get a brief, but significant insight into someone elses life, and see them through a new lense and you become recharged with their words and also heavy with their insides and all at once tangled in their emotions. 

THAT just happened to me. 




Change is suffering past each second with the stark prickle of awakening.

You have friends, and warmth. Stress, and strain. Ambition, and ambiguity.

You have love bubbling at the ends of each finger waiting to be tested and used. It’s full potential- a magnetic pull at the regression of a lingering lust. 

The shackles of adult liability weigh heavily on the reminiscence of an expired youth-but light fire to the unsettling impatience of desire. 

Four letter words are tucked away into each secluded hiding spot. Lungs, cheeks, each rib in your side, and the joints of your eager limbs. Held tight for when your youth can be rearranged into your sedated life and brought into the mirage of a future. 

Money, time, responsibility, school, work, opinion, stress, anxiety all abolished in the honor of living for memories that brought back the stark prickle of what is was to be awake. 

and breathing.

what is was to open your rib cage and embellish risk into the core of restrain. 

what is was to be free and young.

what is was to churn fresh lust into the yellow hue of an unchained bird.




pin through wings.

a shadow casted on a thin wall.

the electric lid of space sent spiraling

with silhouette bodies, tangled into one

core. their words never buoyant to be heard-ingested into

the safe of promiscuity. 

released like balloons into a misted sky.

they are gone.

the lingering of inadvertence stings in your rose coloured glasses-but all to be left scarred is the notches etched into your post.

and the one you want carved into your palms

is the butterfly against a desert of grains.