He is nothing like you.

There will be nobody compared to you,

and I’m afraid that will always hold me back from trying.


He is nothing like you.

Maybe that’s a good thing, maybe a different kind of soul is what’s best

for me.


He is nothing like you.

While you are trying to figure it all out by staring at what needs to be done,

he figures it out by getting it done.


He is nothing like you,

but when I lay next to him,

he feels just like you.


You welcomed yourself into my dreams last night.

You told me that you loved me.

We were in my bed, and your arms were wrapped around me

I could almost smell the woodwork of your skin.

You loved me so much that I never needed to love myself– you always loved me enough for the both of us. I’m still trying to learn the concept of self love,

I try to remember how much you loved me

in hopes of digging up some leftover love

for myself.

You told me that you would wait for me at the gates of heaven, but

I feel as if I had already died waiting for you at the front gates of my home.

I wish I could forget the thought of you,

but how could you teach someone to forget to think about

anything at all.


Saturdays, 2010-2014

The kitchen was always bright, either by your smile or the refrigerator light.

We used to sit on the floor of your kitchen, take each other in, and talked about our fears.

We always turned off the lights.

It was almost like living with a ghost in the house.

I remember Saturdays with you.

We spent hours in your room.

I laid in your bed watching you paint. You were an artist, an unfathomable person.

Each part of your soul was closed off to everyone you met, but me.

I explored your soul and your mind. Your mind was a maze of darkness that even you did not understand.

You were always afraid that they would take you away from me, I think that’s why I insisted on holding you close.

Saturdays were our days.

When your hands trailed my body under the moonlight, those were the nights of Saturday.

Saturday was the day I realized that I was in love with you.

The day I tattooed my heart on my wrist for you, placed my heart on a silver platter for you.

I wish I could relive those Saturdays; meet you again, introduce myself again, change the ending.

I hope you remember those Saturdays.

I hope you think of me on those sadder nights on Saturdays.

February 9, 2017 // 1:15 AM 

Spring, 1999 (revised)

There is a house on the South Side of Chicago,

home to a four-year-old girl.

A house with a bright green lawn, freshly mowed,

and two large bushes in front.

You can often see flowers growing in the ground

underneath them.

The image of this house I completely contrary to the truth


This building was compiled of bricks, cement and large windows

and did not feel like home to my four-year-old self.

This building was made on a foundation of betrayal.

This was no home to me.

The mortar between the bricks is soft and eaten away

by insects; this house is falling,


towards the ground—my home is no more.


My stocky black hair whips across my baby skin,

with tears heavy enough to drag me towards the ground.

The birds were singing again,

and the sun was hiding behind a cloud.

This weather signifies new beginnings, but this house

without the home of my father’s arms was the end of all.

My four-year-old self cries for her father, she wails for him,

asking why he cannot stay in this strange house with her.

Her father comforts her as she cries


We will be together soon, he says


Her delicate heart could not comprehend why

he must do this, why he has to leave. She was

trying to understand why her world must come to an end.


As he walked away, she listened to the heel-toe click of his footsteps,

and thought to the beat of his step

there’s no place like home

                        there’s no place like home

                                    there’s no place like home


My body is a graveyard of forgotten souls.

I hold funerals and memorials every year for each one.

On the anniversary of our death,

I remember you,

standing at the end of the bridge,

looking down

down at the river.

You asked me,

              would you jump in for me if I fell?

Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to swim in water,

or in love.

This graveyard holds my bones.

They hold the stories of each forgotten memory.

My spine,

my right hip,

my right shoulder.

I’m convinced that you are still

a part of me


I wonder if I am still a part of you.


Do your bones ache because of me?

Do you hold funerals,


vigils, every year for me?


I hope you light a candle for me at my casket,

one for each time I ever crossed your mind.


I hope you set the world on fire

with the thought of me.


Write a poem about yourself in which nothing is true.


my life is in shambles

my coffee is decaf, and my heart is still



my first love,

you have given me all that I could ever



have given me everything I could ever

want to move forward

my life is in a world-wind

and you,

my forever love,

by the hand of god, you

kept the world steady for me

my heart is still broken, and

you have made it easier

I continue to be in love with you, and

I will always miss you

Past, Present, Future

14 shots of vodka taste better than the memory of you on my lips

the very thought of you coats my tongue, and I can never taste love the same way again


the song that is being overplayed on the radio feels better than our song played only once

with the sound of my skin turning yellow for you, my liver gives itself up as a token of your love


the emails reminding me about my debt are better than the email you sent to me, ending it all in an instant, electronic, self-destruct button

with the paragraphs that pleaded your apologetic devotion for me, claiming you still loved me


the blood being taken out of my body every year for tests satisfies me more than you ever did

with the clean results, I still never felt pure enough for you


you, first love, you are the ghost of my past, present, and future

reminding me of what I must never dare relive


Your soul is like a Monet.

You are water lilies on a pond,

painted on a canvas on display at the Art Institute of Chicago

for the world to admire.

You are historic, a masterpiece, but

the closer I look at your colorful strokes,

the less I understand about you.

You become a mess.

The farther away I look at you,

the more I understand.

You are a masterpiece from far away.

You are the love of my life from far away.

You’ve found somebody that can look at the colorful strokes of your mind up close,

and still see you as if they were far away.

To her, you are always a masterpiece.

You are painted like a Monet, and I will always appreciate your beauty, and your soul.


In an instant,

I was sworn away

like a bad memory.


standing above the tracks,

waiting for the trains to meet

at a point of vulnerability.

They pass each other by

like strangers.

You are relieved by the sight,

affirming your decisions.

We are like the trains,

passing each other by

without a single moment of



or suspicion.

I wonder if one day we will

meet again, but I fear that we,

like the trains at night,

will explode on impact.

I wonder if that’s still a risk

you’re willing to take.

For you

I sleep, for you.

I lay in bed in hopes to be reunited with the past,

I wait for sleep to start feeling like your arms in order to fall,



I breathe, for you.

My lungs inhale the hope that you etched into my skin like a bad tattoo.

I exhale the happiness that I thought I could cultivate, sow, and tend to,

without you.


I eat, for you.

With every bite I take, I hold on tight to my ribs, hoping to feel them expand the way you wish they would.

I swallow, and I hold on tighter like a corset, hoping that I feel my body change,

for you.


I dress, for you.

Your favorite dress on me, was the one I loathed the most. I wish I could rip it off my body, and shred it with the sheer strength of my hatred.

You had loved that dress—you tore it apart instead.


I walk, for you.

With every heel-toe step I take, I meditate on how my foot hits the ground. You were right across from me, and suddenly I was 2 years old again. I forgot how to walk.

You have paralyzed me.

You now wheel me around in a chair, and I am forever in your debt.


I live, for you.

What does it mean to live, to you?

I count each beauty spot on my golden skin, and I can see a constellation of stars—you are the black hole that sucks me into your soul, only to be forgotten.

That is what it means to live, to you.