blind in chinatown

i forgot my glasses in the flat
blind in chinatown, san francisco
in the blur of city stimulation, i can make out
the decor of orange peels lining the streets
shriveled up into forced smiles for tourists.
coastal air carries sparse exhales of sewage
through the gaps of the alleyways
where pigeons peck frantically at rot.
mass-produced souvenirs swirl into a mosaic of madness
kanji commercially pasted onto greeting cards and shot glasses
neon hums against the fog
sputtering characters i can’t translate-
somewhere between invitation and warning-
each flicker a stutter in the city's tired breath.
steam swirls from a vendor’s stall
the scent of soy and five-spice drifting
unraveling like a memory i was never meant to have.
i follow the glow of paper lanterns,
drifting sightless through a sea of voices
that blur like watercolor on wet pavement

i mistake a storefront mirror for an open doorway
my own face lost in the smudge of a thousand fingerprints.

the airs secretes a scent of floral seduction, seconds later
a woman in a red coat brushes past me.
the clatter of her bracelets swallowed by car horns
and the sharp inhale of a man lighting a cigarette

a pigeon startles, wings flapping against twirling scraps
paper fortunes scatter from a torn plastic bag
folded futures dissolving into cobblestone runoff 

as above, so below

as above
blinding white light
shears through the velvet
evening fabric with intentional
cross-stitching, the yellow burn of yarn
looped through my doc martin boot, laced
around its neck like the noose of my lover left dangling
the stars seem more like exit wounds the longer i stare
i slip off my boot to air my bare feet between blades of grass
graciously licked by the accumulating morning dew condensing quietly
in the night consumed by grief and haunted by memories that
stain the glass of my prescription with faithless pessimism
i spiral on my descent down into my subconscious
attempting to stab through its skin with shards
of hope to expose holes of light so to
keep me from drifting into the dark
deafening endless depth
so below

desperate to forget

do you cauterize your wounds shut?  

i've grown tired from each repetitive  

grab of roots, fistfuls 

more faithful toward memories than truth

weeds that won't dwindle  

until the whole forest is burned to ash  

entire ecosystems silenced by scorch 

can you ever cut it out entirely? 

futile to pick and press on

a cyst oozing with pus

you refuse to close after extraction 

i've retracted my hands

yet the pulse flames hot and red beneath my skin

lesion leaking regenerative rot 

tell me, has genocide ever been absolute?

the kitchen reeks of insecticide  

infestation lines the inside of each crevice 

carcinogens cling to the table i dine 

though it's no use 

you continue to crawl in the forefront of my mind 

impossible to exterminate   

have you considered a lobotomy?

perhaps the doctor can pierce through the paired 

parietal lobes that store my  secrets 

release them onto the sterile silver platter

disposed of in medical waste 

the deeper they dig, the faster you metastasize

parasite betrothed to its hostile host  

i cannot purge you completely

without destroying myself in the process

perhaps we are one in the same 

a truth i cannot claim.

epiphyte

i am your mother’s favorite flower

not quite a parasite 

but a codependency

nurtured from unrelated blood

fertilized by love of her womb

that seemed to have missed you  

you would never have diagnosed

my limbless figure 

if you spotted me in convenience stores

propagated below my belt

see my spine arch over pot

an illusion of strength

hallucinates my frictionless stance

your mother weeps for you while

i collect her rain with sympathy

soaked leaves seep into my soil

it is her i wish to grow toward

but it is you

whom I must wrap around to reach her

fuschia stains her cheeks pink

while you pluck me limb from limb

to gift her a wilting timebomb

you, her fertilized seed 

shows no resemblance

to the woman who watered me

i wish to be orchid 

yet i am orphaned from this earth

by your son’s greedy hands

drained defiled deflowered 

to die on your flowerbed

as a connection that was never mine to claim

berry

berries bleed between my nails,
the more i sort for the ripest one.
the more i am stained,
the more i search.

i prick my finger upon
enchanted thorn—
welcomed by mother’s swift slap,
punishment for my pickiness.

i will not learn untouchable lessons,
but i will remember stains—
red, smeared across my hands,
a mark that lingers.

nightshade casts a shadow
over her sweeter sisters,
imperceivable poison
lurking beneath her skin.

baited by betrayal,
biblical in nature—
a deceptive disciple
melts between my molars.

in my wrongs, i am released
while sweet wine seethes
through my teeth, onto the soil
where god first planted consequence—

damming eve.

hangnail

a little lift

in my cuticle’s indent

beckons my caress

void of care

surgical precision 

compels my unskilled hands

strung by puppet strings

peeling the page 

onto the next

raw indent of red

long tender strips of leather

stick to their origin

hanging on like a child’s needy 

grip of their departing mother

orphan dermis

vibrant opulus  

blossom from thick

keratin plates embedded in sticky satisfaction

saliva drip spit

extinguish volcanic eruption

with the feline lick of regret

felt only after temptation wins

monet

oh what a curious clutz! 

always falling for artists

with their magical fingers

waltzing my joints around like puppet

strings, kneeling below their gaze

painting all things

with a beautiful glaze of pink

my eye’s precise prescription

for blindness and softness

consumes all grooves 

protruding from their jagged

scowl that i bend into a smile

art is interpretation after all!

and what an artist I am

in my ability to project my 

beauty onto such an untalented thing

an “acquired palette” 

is a polite way of saying unpopular,

which is a crystalline shell

of political correctness

bound to crack under the hot sun

melting away the sugar coated 

compliance with boiling fury 

birthed by betrayal 

foul, tasteless, and tone deaf

nonetheless I fall,

for their angst and ambition

to create 

a miniature god

i watch from afar in awe

until my knees bruised 

buckled beneath blues

and velvety purple veins

blood rushes down 

now bent into a stance 

tall, strong, and sightful

a monet really is horrendous up close!

lamb

there over the hill!

straining my eyes blind until 

a soft tumbleweed sweeps closer 

roaming over rolling plains

coming closer with knobby knees 

wobbling sheepishly under its collapsing coat of cotton

beckoning my sensitivity 

oh lamb of god,

i will cherish your sacrifice!

divinely divided from his herd

i meet you below my womb

where you nuzzle angelic fur into the nooks of hips

i fall to my knees

genuflect onto the grass beneath  

where i gullibly lay 

consumed by my self proclaimed 

prophesy as your shepard

i allow your outgrown hooves 

that now seem more like claws

press your full weight on my sternum 

while you pull your wool over my eyes 

in this warm dark silence of trust

my ears are painfully pierced

by your hollow howl 

i am devoured 

ripped apart limb by limb 

canine teeth piercing my flesh 

i was devoted to feed endless herbs 

hot blood drips back onto my face

metallic spit leaks from my lips

as i lift my neck to kiss you 

a selfish dying wish

i do not fight

paralyzed under a soft blanket of betrayal

woven from weakness 

consecrated into communion

consumed in tender transience 

my sacrifice in isolation 

won't be celebrated in scriptures

mothers of america

Mothers of America 

sit and stare out the window

picking apart scraps 

scraping across fine china

restricting themselves

reserving the hope to 

revert their stomachs to a state 

before stretch marks

when they still had hobbies

prior to eroding their identity 

they hang their neck

under the noise of their 

nuisance husbands 

who neglect their needs

and silence their worries 

with subpar salaries 

feeding mouths created by accident

and fear of the catholic church

figures who are now fathers

a haunting compromise 

for the unrequited college roommate

and first love who they still

let fill the frame of their eyelids

when their husband 

parts their legs as promised

by pity only once a month 

living the dream

of low calorie luxury

I can't believe it's not Butter!

and Paula Deen consume 

their glossed eyes

glued to the television screen

scrubbing their wrinkled brains 

clean and smooth

with soap operas sudsing 

at the dream of celebrities 

who still look thirty and have the 

body of their daughter

they can't help but humiliate 

as their extension of self 

reflecting back their shortcomings 

until they no longer come home

and perhaps then

only then 

can they remember

that they are

more than

Mothers in America  

mittens

your ringed fingers

wrap around mine

palms pressed

our knuckled intertwined

strengthened by

gaps filled

between webbed curves

we mesh into one 

a knot of skin

twenty buried bones

woven together

in the finest mittens

of fleshy yarn

never to age 

nor be outworn 

resistant to the forces

when whipping winds 

threaten to rip

us apart, We bring 

each other closer

pressing breasts

uniting our hearts

left alone in lab

fuck wafting, i am smelling every carcinogen

cinching my nose hairs until i release my head back 

floating like helium 

leaving my lab coat behind

as i defy gravity ascending through the atmosphere

the cheap plastic of my safety glasses 

bounce across the lab bench

as i rip off their obstruction

fogging up my vision

divine blind precision guides my hands 

i undress the chemical condom

suffocating each finger with sweat 

swirling the wet solute that tickles my fingertips

raw sex with the elements

returns me to my curiosity reborn 

i pour a potion of poison

until my child mind is satisfied 

with the precise concentrated shade of purple 

a princess would drink before the ball

i dip my tongue in to taste the tang

my ears rang with each clink of glassware

bumping beakers like the cheersing 

of a cold beer shared between boys

who are allowed to be scientists

stronger than hydrochloric acid 

after im satisfied i strip naked

documenting my feelings in my lab notebook

making sure to balance the coefficients

i crank on the safety shower that runs red from rust

accumulated from being unused for years

by scientists gripped by the fetish of the mind

whom find safety in sterilized paths

predestined and unquestioned

void of all sensation 

to prove a point to their company in lab

i remember breathing

 I remember a marine biologist telling me on a tour how whales are conscious breathers, how they choose to come up from the surface to breathe in the same way we make the conscious decision to eat so that we don’t starve. I remember the splash of each spout on the horizon invoking a powerful sensation of resilience that I envied. I return to this memory, and it brings me back to conscious breath.

I remember wondering why our body isn't always breathing on autopilot, how it is for most of the day. With the same unconscious care of our smooth muscles contracting and expanding without our mind explicitly spelling out the command. Each organ moving with invisible memory, sleepwalking throughout the night. Wordless whispers are exchanged in the secret language of breath, a slow constant radiation of life feeding the trees empty calories.

The choice is always there, to control my breath, and yet consciousness only finds me when I am suffocating under the weight of choice. This feels like a metaphor for free will in a way, or perhaps the human condition I can’t manage to diagnose.

I remember I am breathing in the silence of the night, when the whistle exhaled from my nasal cavity echoes off my sinus walls, ricocheting against my skull. I count each breath like sheep, each exhale taunting me with white noise reminding me that I am awake. I cannot remember my last breath before I go under the blanket of night, and this too upsets me. How breath blends from choice to compulsion. 

I intimately remember the absence of breath. Life without breath was a paradox I was quite fond of, though I cannot grasp the reason why. I reminisce, holding my breath under pool water, pretending I am dead, a limp jellyfish swaying my limbs beneath my arched back until I could feel the carbon dioxide press heavy against my chest. I counted the seconds until chlorine stung my nose, instinctually inhaling absent air.

I remember learning how to inhale smoke, which was the first time it didn't bother me to consciously breathe. Wrapping my lips around christened glass was the only time I could reach depth in my inhales, sucking in the artificial life force I mistakenly identified as consciousness. I remember drawing chalky breaths from my desert dry mouth sucking in the ghost of my mind’s rest. I inhaled and inhaled until my memory went blank, and I could no longer remember breathing.

I remember when I lost the choice to breathe. When I thought I took my last breath, and no matter how hard I sucked, I sank further and further into suffocation. My chest a popped balloon deflating with each hyperventilating breath attempting to pump life into its rubber. My trachea, a broken straw bent beneath the weight of anxiety, wheezing from my diaphragm. I remember thinking back to the whales, and watching my twisted tail attempt to kick up to the surface for one last breath.    

I recently remembered how to breathe in a room dominated by the stench of sweaty skin. I recall switching to inhaling through my mouth to avoid the olfactory tickle of body odor. My knees bent before me, planted parallel over the soles of my feet where my toes gripped the foam of the mat, and I opened my rib cage to the sky. The pink fluid of my lungs overflowed over the brim of my bones while my belly stretched to its full capacity. I remember sucking in the salt of tears subconsciously rolling down my face for the simple fact that I wanted to remember this breath.    

confession

Each night, as my eyes close,
I push open the church doors
and bless myself with holy water
accumulating in the corners of my eyes.
Behind those four walls,
my temporal,
paired parietal, and occipital lobes,
I waltz into confession,
though I haven't physically been in years.
Guilt brings me to my knees,
where God watches me from the sockets
of my eyelids,
where He lay woven since my first communion.
When I used to recite the National Anthem,
mistakenly documenting it as prayer,
slurring along its repetition as my repentance,
hoping to alleviate the shame that pushes down on my ribs,
stolen from Adam’s chest.
I confess to what consumes me,
apologizing for the warmth I find when laying
my heart against a woman's womb.
Yet, in the same breath, I express gratitude
for the love that fills me,
divinely gifted by no one less than Him.
I plead for forgiveness
for all of the skepticism I let scrape away my faith,
and I bow my head in sorrow
for all of those whom I disappointed
in finding my own peace.
I swear an oath of silence that I press deep
within the indents of my skull.
And when I open my eyes, I genuflect out of the pews,
Father still sticking behind my sockets,
my ambiguous guilt forever guiding me back to God.

iridescent girl

My iridescent girl,
you are impossible to reduce
into something words can pin down.
Your true nature lies in the pearly belly of the oyster,
calling me to crack open and explore its luminous insides.
I see it in the twinkle of the diamond that studs out of your nose,
glimmering a hypnotic glow that pulls me in closer and closer,
until there is blood across the sheets
when my nose snags against yours.
And we are laughing at our reflection,
your hot, sticky blood creating a sheen across our skin,
glossed in blood, sweat, and tears.
And I try to capture the precise color of the moment,
but it is gone,
shifting across the moonlight.
I wake up to your opalescent wisps of blonde across my chest,
twirling around each silky strand with tenderness.
I wonder how it can exist as so many colors at once,
and I know I may never have the words to understand you,
nor the ability to capture your fluid light in my cupped hands.
But I experience you with full clarity,
feeling the rays of your shifting warmth
as they fleet through the gaps of my fingers with tender transience.
I will treasure you in my temporary possession,
polishing your skin for as long as you reflect my light.
My iridescent girl.

salt

I beg your sweet face to

evaporate neglected years

let the tears dissolve like morning mist,

unveiling the ancient salt that stains your cheeks.

Salt, a mark of sorrow,

and yet, in the same breath,

it heals wounds,

stinging both an offering and a promise

Every drop, a memory,

every sigh, a prayer—

may it wash away the weight of fears

you've carried like stones in your chest.

You refuse my touch,

but my hands remain open,

and still, I love you

like the sky loves the sea,

endlessly pulling and releasing.

Swallow your apology

it tastes like regret,

let it dissolve on your tongue

and fall

leave it to the earth,

where it will be forgotten.

You recoil, as though love itself were a betrayal

your chest pulls tight,

skin drawn taut like the strings of a broken bow,

but my hands stay open,

waiting for you to return.

The taste of salt still fresh on your lips

I pull your hips closer to mine 

Where your exhales are recycled 

by my lungs hopeless expansion. 

I want you to feel loved

Not sorry.  

read me

Can you feel me infused in the ink?

I am absent,
only words on a page,
paradoxically present in your space.
It is not enough to feel you,
to penetrate your flesh with mine.
True intimacy lies between the lines.

Are you literate in love?

Love feels right when written,
when adulterous eyes are guided
down lingering lines.
Let your subconscious undress my syllables,
consuming your internal dialogue
with the monologue I script inside your skull.

Do you understand the metaphors I liken you to?

Your vocal cords rest
while your heart strings are tugged,
unraveling love embedded in a song unsung.
Yet the tune rings between your ears,
an invisible melody caught in your canal,
pulsing along to your heart’s hum.

Will you read me?

Pick apart my punctuation
sensual skepticism translating my true intent.
Trace each period pressing down,
mushy indents into my heart,
where each cavity reserves space
only to be read on the page.

prism

i lie with women

while lying to men

thinking of the other 

while tossing in bed 

i shut my eyes tight

basking in ambiguous skin

the light illuminates 

duality’s disappointment

futile flesh

concave or convex

serves its purpose 

in shortening my breath 

i crave to connect

but feel isolated 

between oscillation 

dueling for my attention 

bidirectional tug

my heart split in two

hushed by a label

limiting my love 

they pray on my confusion

hoping to heal me straight

a prism of light,

fractured only in their eyes

ill continue to distort 

the normative noose

that aims to silence

this continuous hurt 

sorting through the white light

basking in the invisible 

colors, kissing my skin

i lay with the silence

of absent resolution

breath

In my dreams, your hair is longer,
your lips still soft.
My hands start to wander
down your chest,
but there’s no heartbeat—
just an empty, cold cavity.

I press my sternum
against your breast,
transferring my heat,
hoping your breath will return.
But you lie there like a mossy stone,
collecting my life over your frozen bones.

I doubt you still think of me,
but you remember my love—
ravenous vines intertwined around your hands,
faithlessly holding on,
forming around you like fingerless gloves.

I tend to grow in cold, absent places,
devoid of light and nurture—
the familiar torture I’m native to.
You remind me of home,
where I curl beneath your stone
and hopelessly grow.

Your mountains collect snow
this time of year,
and I wonder if the frost
will finally let this love die.
I’d rather be released,
like new seeds escaping in death,
than continue depleting my oxygen
to feed your breath.

selflove

love birthed from 

immaculate conception 

radiant heart of an open kitchen

welcoming travelers in, wanting nothing in return

yearning for reciprocity but soon you will learn

you are self sustaining 

nourished by the silent song of solitude 

love is strength engraved in ink down your spine

strangers trace down in translation

their false assumptions only bring you gratitude

for the fact you contain multitudes moreover

than the human mind can unravel

only you know the depths traveled down

roots to uplift petals— blooming 

into the fruits of your labor

sweet tropical juice drips from your lips

each time you are reminded by

the capabilities of your gifts and virtues

that spontaneously secrete from your soul

you are evidence that from neglect, internal light is born 

whisper these words

when you wallow under the weight of the impossible

tuck your brunette curls behind your ears

hush the fears that aim to silence you

as you embrace your passion to persevere 

for you are a force to be reckoned with

a warrior whittled by the whimsical

revealing your soft underbelly in rebellion 

sensitivity slithering through your veins 

empowering a divinity no mortal can contain

birthday

frosting licked lips

sweet butter creme 

sprinkles on top

party city candles drip in anguish while awaiting my wish

flame flickers 

my eyes have grown old

strained from screens and stars

my eye doctor gifts me the word photopsia

in this blurr

whirling voices consume me

congratulating me on another year 

i've felt sixteen for half a decade of denial  

how long can i squeeze?

the lust of life out of the

lungs i breathe—hyperventilating  

desperately sucking for youth that escapes me   

until my age is an absent excuse 

for my teenage blues gnawing

at my hips that have widened 

and my breast that have flattened from starvation

this day of decay 

tucks my brunette hair behind my ears

and whispers words of salvation

pearls of wisdom birthed from frustration