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I’m surrounded by desiccation, by hundreds
of dried-up, deceased worms.

My gait is made uneven, compensating for
the avoidance of treading upon the remnants
of these small creatures.

Who dictates this desolation?

Why are these worms drawn up by the false
promises of rain and condemned to dry under
the unforgiving sun, as assuredly as a lover’s
deceit?

The palpable presence of human encroachment
is a boon for such manipulation, sidewalks
providing the platter upon which the tiny
things are baked.

Unevolved and forever fated to flail into
their demise, only an absent-minded hand
descending from above can serve them mercy.

Kathy cuts into her slice of Devil’s Food Cake
sticky on the hospital tray
as she tells the table why she wants to die,

“There’s no point anymore,”
she says.

Her back stabs and
her feet ache
and she can’t even walk,
stuck in this damn chair.

When she was a little girl,
she was grandaddy’s favorite.

On Christmas morning, her stocking would grow so heavy
its stitches would bend
like a fishing net full of tuna.

And on her fifth birthday,
Grandaddy gave her a pretty wooden box

with ballerinas painted on its sides and
sweets and chocolates filling it.

Straight out of high school, she married Dan,

her sweetheart and prom date,
who cooked three meals a day for her,
even on his lunch break.

Neither of them had God,
but their matrimony was made
under Latter-Day Saints,
so their children would have a friend.

And so the years went by,
Kathy and Dan had their little house
outside of Bellevue,
to avoid the city rush

and their children grew up with a surrogate God
and Dan kept on cooking his meals
and Kathy let the days pass her by
and now she was here with us

in a hospital wing that served three meals a day
at the price of freedom.

Kathy told me she was a coke fiend
so I tried to swap stories
and she smiled and told me
she meant “the kind that comes in cans”

her life had been spent on something sweet
but blandness seeped into it

and I guess she wanted something new
that she found in those pills

I’d never faltered,
I knew what I wanted,
and even if it killed me,
I’d die happy

but Kathy’s hopes were empty,
she chased sugar,
never knowing what she really craved,
and someday soon, it’d lead her to the grave.

I made it out in twelve days,
with a sign off from the DA,
and Kathy stayed inside.

in her broken chair and her ratty clothes
still I picture her

with three meals prepared,
and Devil’s Food Cake after supper.

my sister my brother
i wish you knew
how much our parents hate us
but i’ll protect you
i’ll listen
i’ll fight
i’ll provide
i’ll do what they couldn’t
whatever you need
you desire, you want
you’ll never have to know
that they don’t care

so i’ll try
even as you grow
and learn
the truth
i’ll do whatever you need
forever in servitude to you
and you’ll never know
as you ask, you beg
for more
and more and
more
this is how it has always been
i’ll give till you’re happy
if you ever can be
i’ll try and try
to replace what they were supposed to give
and we’ll all end up miserable
but at least you’ll never know
how hard this has been

we build a home in the comfort of
bygone days, fueled by aspirations
of tomorrow, neglecting the reality
of the present. There, our existence
seemed to dissipate. Memories,
whimsical phantoms, the more we
reached for them, the further they run
down a road of elusive imagination.
Did I construct a prison for you,
confined to my mind, frozen in time,
unyielding and unaltered, woven into
the fabric of unrealizable potential. It
held the power to heal what had been
broken, blurring the boundaries of
where you began and where I ended.

my heart has mourned your absence
countless times, it has shattered and
mended. There are scars on my soul
that still whisper your name, only to
realize your scarcity was but a fleeting
illusion. I clung so desperately to your
body for within its embrace resided
what I thought to be my heart. It was
bound in an eternal cycle to breathe
or to suffocate, dancing to a rhythm
only we could sustain. Time was our
enemy, we fought it in battle. Swords
made of the very bones that held us
together, our armor like parchment
in a storm that continued to consume
us. Distance left marks on our hearts,
a self-inflicted wound. I guided your
hand to stab me over and over again.

Until we couldn’t remember who we were fighting.
Until we couldn’t remember what we were fighting for.
How often can a heart break until it can never be whole again?

At the beginning of the end, the sky was filled with clouds
Fluffy, floaty wisps of uncertainty

Blocking the rejuvenating sun

Withholding the mysterious moon

Each night he turned his eyes to the window
The dark sky framed like a painting you can see but not touch

Searching for his destination

After I’m gone, he’d say, look for me when the moon is bright
I’ll be there, looking back at you

Sending a kiss on the breeze

A hug in the wind

All that remained was to find his way

He dreamed of an opening in the sky
A navigational epiphany

The road revealed

But the furthest he could travel
Was from this room to that room
Stopping to lean against the doorframe

Longing for a door that said
EXIT

A dead man sings of alcohol and bridges.

College Greek letters blur
into a hoodie, then
into a boy. He asks, “Are you
okay?” as I stand on a bridge,
over a makeshift creek
of snowmelt. I
was not drunk enough–
the water deep enough–
the jump drastic enough
to make a difference.

I did not have the heart
to tell him I was only trying to
talk with the current, not
get dragged by it. At least,
not this time. It is merely proof
of how difficult it is to hold
a conversation with water
trickling through your fingers.
Sobs and eddies alike.

A dead man sings of bridges and sobriety.

I think of every drink as a battle.
I do not let my new friends know this.
They have never met a Briana
who could not walk home
despite the fact she
was already in it.

I won this time. Home
safe, and sound, and then drowned
out the world, immersed in
victory song. The frontman sings
of smolder and I have never
known a 750ml to be incendiary–
quite the contrary, an empty bottle
can be a home; my glass house
interprets “slosh”
as ebb and flow: natural.
Ocean. River.
A makeshift creek.

If only I could sink
into the depths of me, wash
myself clean. It feels like
the only way to win the war.

A dead man sings of alcohol and sobriety.

I think of how Scott crooned for us
his preferred death; none of us
knowing the wiser, and yet,
knowing better. All of us,
knowing how we thirst
for a drawbridge. His loss
hits us without warning,
despite the alarms
gushing from his mouth,
blushing his cheeks.

Every song was a battlecry,
his own secret war hidden
in the tracks. His lyrics
once anointed me with
enough hope to swim on,
but now… Hope is
a dangerous thing. Feathers
float down the river,
the water itself
aching at the thought
of having to drown
such a delicate noun, knowing
it will have to do so anyways.

He had just turned sixteen,
Talking to a girl who was the only thing,
That gives meaning to his life,
The only thing to keep his heart alive,
He asked her out but she stood him up,
He really thought that he was in love,
She tried to apologise,
But he didn’t care if they gave it one more try,
They had a great night and talked a little more,
That’s when she confessed “I don’t know if I’ll win this war,”
She cries,
Holding on to the hand of the only guy,
That loves her,
While she was being a soldier,
She wants to say that there is no end,
But she knows it’ll come back again,
She didn’t want to be alone,
And she won’t,
Because of the boy on the phone,

He sent texts for her to see,
But she didn’t really want to read,
Even though she felt warm when she saw them,
And they made her forget about her problems,
Then she said “I’m so sorry but I can’t do this.”
Even though all she wanted was the touch of his kiss,
He asked her why,
She let out a sigh,
She then untied,
the ribbon from her hair that was pink,
And said “I’m so weak,
from fighting the big C,”
She cries,
Holding on to the hand of the only guy,
That loves her,
While she’s being a soldier,
She wants to say that there is no end,
But she knows it’ll come back again,
She didn’t want to be alone,
And she won’t,
Because of the boy on the phone,

He texted her saying I know what you’re going through,
I was at the hospital,
And saw you in the room,
But no matter what would occur,
He said that he’d always love her,
The text that he got back he didn’t want to read,
All he could do was drop straight down to his knees,
He had never felt so alone,
The text read,
“This is her sister, I’m sorry but she gone,”
Another text came through and he started to take note,
This was the last thing she wrote,
She cried,
Holding on to the hand of the only guy,
That loved her,
While she was being a soldier,
She wanted to say that there is no end,
But she knew it would come back again,
She didn’t want to be alone,
And she wasn’t,
Because of the boy on the phone.

So, I’ll watch you betray me,
Watch as that dull blade rips my heart out,
Watch fourteen years turn to ashes.
When it’s over,
I’ll gather the fragments again and again,
Trapped in this unending cycle.
There are no more tears left to shed,
And the dull ache I feel,
As I search for missing pieces,
Has become my only companion.
Shrouded in darkness,
I keep falling,
Yearning for a shimmer of hope,
A ray of warmth,
Anything to restore my sanity.
Even if just for a moment,
Let me live in an illusion—
Where the sky isn’t falling,
Where these walls aren’t upside down,
And where I don’t need a thousand masks to face each day.
At least I still have the freedom to dream,
But terror grips me
Each time I open my eyes,
And I’m back in the same dreadful reality,
With a forced smile plastered on my face.

My heart sank
My stomach dropped
You were poison
My “stop” falling on deaf ears
Those words echoed
You toke what you wanted
An inner selfishness exposed
Your mask fell
Your sinister intent arrived
Lucky to have made it out alive

Oh, how ghastly! Ghostly, mostly.
We spirit gist of hocus-pocus.
Hellbound west with fiery focus.
Redeye cloud, like eye shroud locusts,
bloodied, satchelled bags that hold us.
Nor tethered, orphaned, stained in the dark,
embark no more on Orpheusian song,
the notes long rotted.
Only the death-rattles pass the teeth.
Creep, we creep.
As the time collapses our skulls,
Oh, how we long to sleep.
We will be death, by name.
Even Hell no longer tires us.
Just the doubt. All we offer now is our mournful restlessness.
And likely, eternity pervades.