For D.

Most days, I look down at the wreckage of what once was a heart. My soul made heavy by the dreadful weight of melancholy. Most days, I live in a tyrannical regime of clocks and calendars. My thoughts fall from porous hands into silent waters. Most days, I hide my heart and give away my body. My skin screams violent protests against my fallen convictions. Most days, I am an imaginary friend standing outside while looking in. An entire universe separates me from a world where I do not exist.

I am a ghost, most days. Exhaustingly morose at worst, seductively haunting at best. Like clockwork, my hands betray me as they shake with the volume of all the words that fall out of my mouth. They can no longer catch them. They can no longer contain them. So I find myself constantly hurling strings of letters and syllables about hopes and dreams and fears and failures at people who say they want to make sense of the haunting, only to find out they will always fall short.

Most days, I am a voyeur. My feet take me along cobbled streets lined with bare-window brownstones and my eyes catch a glimpse of the animated life within. When I passed by your window, you let me in. I told you I was born, like my mother, in a storm. Because of that, I sail troubled waters to live up to form. I like to keep my heart tucked away from prying eyes, never to reveal too much. In it are wounds that are too profound to heal, while some have set so heavily into scars they feel like braille. I did not know you would have reading hands. Such hands hold a cup full of high life, that is they have lived a life without me. I did not know you would have kind eyes. Such eyes have seen the world for what it is, and now they only see me.

I cannot remember a time when I violently wished to stay in one place. I cannot remember a moment when I became weary of being cynical. It used to be that I remember tenderness only through the haze of my dreams. Now, I taste it on your lips. Now, it seeps into the textures of my skin. You have made all the difference.

I will wait for you all week. Every week. For as long as this love permits. This love is a voluptuous exile of our choosing, an oasis in the middle of an arid world. I have had the pleasure of meeting past lovers who had the power to lift reality for a while, who simply had roughly the right shape to fit for a time. But you weren’t made to fit. You were made to radiate radical softness in a hardened world. Here I am, soaked to the bone in your light. The empty parts now filled. My old and worn soul made new.

If my intention for this opus still escapes you, put simply: I love you.

Pen to paper.

Write to remember. Remember not to build homes out of the fleeting. Remember that settling for measly crumbs will only lead you to the witch and her gingerbread house in the woods. Remember that when people tell you they’re incapable of change, it’s probably best to believe them. Remember that the smell of smoke means a burning castle, or a broken, freckled prince holding a metaphorical cigarette, saying, “If I cut these wrists, would they bleed the blackest ink? Would they leave a perpetual stain on the threads of the tapestry woven by these unsteady hands?”
Write to forget. Forget the nightmares that anchor you to the ground. Forget how every inch of skin ached at the sight of a former lover. Forget the lies that you have mistaken for the truth. Forget how vile this world can be for allowing the loneliness to take up space on the empty side of your bed.
Set those thoughts to paper, write it all out. Let your pen bleed what your mouth refuses to speak. Set in longhand the pain that cripples the heart, clouds the mind, weakens the soul. Write down the past and leave it there. Write down affirmations that let the light in. Darkness is a mere specter. It’s an abstract abyss. It will only wield power if you let it. Photosynthesis that shit. Write down the words: I am enough.
I am enough.

Tempting is the shade.

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Tempting is the shade, but under the sun is where I want to be. I am restless as shadows take ownership of my mind, comforting every doubt with gratitude for these simple times. My feet start growing roots such as anything desperate for a home. Clawing my way around, cutting off veins that yearn for the love the soil beneath can give, because, no. All this dark earth can offer are false assurances and lies, unwilling to let me grow strong enough to no longer need it. You are not fooling me anymore. This cannot be where my journey ends. I will thrive in the sun one day. I will someday.

I wear all white.

I wear all white
to make up for all the darkness I have inside –
the blacks and grays
that eat away my soul,
corrupt my good intentions.

I wear all white
to hide the truth,
throw my lover off
the scent of my unfulfilled heart.

I wear all white
to fool myself most of all,
believe that things
will get better from here.


Deep breaths that used to allude me
have now crushed my lungs.
How beautifully painful,
it is to feel such love,
such happiness,
such yearning for life.
Storms have come and gone,
waves have crashed and retreated,
yet here I am.
I am on crutches,
but I am fine.
I am alive.


She is stardust –
born from the fallen galaxies of
used-to-bes and regrets.
She is nothing;
she is everything.
She is a mistress of the universe –
she belongs to nobody;
she belongs to everybody.


As I live through life post-you,
haunted by what could have been,
I imagine you alright,
With every breath I take,
I grow weary.
I yearn for your touch.
I am inconsolable,
I shiver with the loneliness
that the void you left
Not even the light
that warms this room
can save me.

Many the miles.

I loved him like a cretin
when galaxies
ruled the night.
A lifetime’s worth
in one
was the moment
he tore down
the walls,
took the trite
and turned them
into effervescent pearls
of light.
An anarchy of
and hues of red
erupted in my gut,
my chest,
his love
made sticky
in my blood.

love crumbled
to its knees.
It stood there,
nose bloody
from defeat
returning a heart
on loan,
not sure
any longer.
Have the miles
cast shadows so great,
his love
in my veins
no longer
cures the ache?
Have I,
have we,
been chasing rainbows
all along?


Because your bed is
a confession box and
I haven’t stopped sinning
and you make me forget
what to do with my hands.
Because there are times
we are meant to burn and
now is not one of them.
Because I have loved you
until I have forgotten
what it was like to be whole.
Because this love poem
has turned into an apology.
Because I saw the way
you looked at her.
Because your mouth always
tastes like bourbon and

― Lindsey Hobart


In my years of quiet existence,
I have found freedom to grow.
Looking back,
living loudly in such a small town
has been somewhat restraining,
debilitating even.
Such irony.
Too many people think
they know better,
are better
than you.
Judging with quiet eyes,
smiles and sighs.
Saying anything,
agreeing with every lie,
just to take the attention
away from their own indiscretions,
away from their own sorry lives.
To everyone,
every lie tasted better
than the bland truth.
There I was,
young and crying glitter,
wanting to live life
making every mistake,
learning from each one.
But they didn’t condone that.
Always must be proper.
Leave me be.
I know.
I can see
I am so much more
than what I find at the bottom
of every bottle.
Just give me tonight,
just give me every weekend
to get the stardust out of my eyes.
I will learn.
I will grow.
Reality will sink in.
Come due time,
I’ll lead a quiet existence,
one you would approve of.
Be a grown up
with only but specks of starlight
left in her eyes.