surprise me.

Everyone always asks me how you are, assuming I talk to you every day.
Everyone always asks me where you are, assuming you're supposed to be with me.
That just isn't the case.
I've been living my life with no expectations,
because no expectations means no disappointments,
only surprises.
Stop having such high expectations for me,
I'll only disappoint you.
Besides, I just want to be surprised.

a change of heart.

And just like that,
with one quick flick of the wrist,
he knocked the bowl and cake batter off the kitchen table,
letting it spatter violently all over the flowered wallpaper and the floor,
for he was tired of making cakes for others
who didn't appreciate his baking.
"This time, someone can bake a cake for me," he decided
as patted the flour out of his clothes,
got in his car, lit a cigarette
and drove off into the day.

the bed.

We slip through the wooden, maple syrup stained doors of my bedroom,
traipsing blindly over the patches of yesterday’s clothes I shed;
seas of rose wine ebb and flow like the tides in our guts
as we collapse poetically on my mattress.
I spot one of my stuffed toys on the sheets
and swiftly launch it across the room.
“What was that?” you ask knowingly, yet in jest.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I deflect.
“What was that?” you press, prying for a confession.
“Some nights, I pretend it’s human,” I explain reluctantly,
my cheeks red like strawberries.
“You won’t need that tonight,” you promise, grinning.
“Obviously,” I mumble.
“Why do you sleep with so many clothes on?” you tease.
“I’m getting there,” I sputter, slowly undressing.
This is my nest; I will not be picked on in my own bed.

My fingertips trace your contour like crayons,
slipping smoothly into every nook,
dipping delicately around every curve, calligraphically,
gliding like warm butter over every leavened drift,
across every subtle protrusion of your stretched canvas,
charting your tapered terrain, graphing your gait,
carefully stenciling your strong and sturdy silhouette,
investigating the borders of your fleshy landscape.
You’re taller than me, and I am thankful.
I knead your thighs like dough.
You reach your arm across the hills of my hips,
and your fingers climb my ribcage and my collarbones with ease,
stopping to thumb the crux of my clavicles,
flicking the knot that is my Adam’s apple
and gingerly grip my neck,
as though you are afraid to fall from such great heights.
We kiss.
You press my back into your chest;
I sit in the chair that is your thighs,
Our legs entangle,
Our palms meet,
Our fingers interlace,
Our bodies intertwine.

I feel your heartbeat, your rhythm;
I try to match it.
I feel your breath on my neck,
the warmth of your body against mine;
we split the heat.
You wrap your arms around me.
Your muscles harden as your grip tightens.
And as I melt into you,
I think to myself:
This is what it must feel like to be human.

“Thank you.”

cigarette break from the family kitchen

The scored gashes of the cutting board seared—
the aroma slicing like tined sword fish.
I wiped the salt and the seas from my lids,
thankful for the onions, the knife, the cry.

My silvery aunt suggested fresh air,
after noting the room smelled like brine;
cutting and weeping was therapeutic,
but I was jonesing for a cigarette.

We crept out, even though everyone knew
our code—what “getting fresh air” really meant.
We sipped sweet chemicals through paper straws
exhaling twining crow’s nests to the moon.

We climbed, searching for my dead grandfather.
We were prepared—unspooling anecdotes,
uncorking bottled histories, leaving
behind a rich trail of pearls in the stars.

“Like golden thread to guide him home” I said,
knowing all to well his ship wouldn’t breach
the horizon. And when the satellites
come crashing down, I’ll have my memories.

"Washington shivers, Moscow laughs"

We bundle, making sure all exposed skin is covered,
as not to entice a bite from February’s icy jaw.
We wear our scarves like dust masks—
as though this is some nuclear winter,
but it’s hardly a cold war out there.
Across the sea—more than well-practiced in the art
of surviving the cold—Russia scoffs.
“America is resilient, until it snows.”
And as I hopelessly try to shovel myself out of winter,
I wonder what life would be like if it
only consisted of springs and autumns.
I hallucinate a bird singing, only for it to be replaced
with the overwhelming silence of falling snow,
and as much as I miss the lilacs and the magnolias—
I would miss this serenity even more.

on growing up.

No one likes admitting defeat,
Especially when you were more than sure that you were right.
With the evidence stacked as high as it was—
Higher than the dirty dishes in the sink,
Higher than the cathedrals of cigarette butts
Rising from their ashtray foundations—
Pockets full of posies and proof,
And piles upon piles of fervent witness testimonial stacked in your favor,
You knew, you were certain
That heads would roll.
There was no possible way you could be wrong.
There was no possible way that the jury could find him
Not guilty.

Except
You’re the jury.
And you’ve reached an unexpected verdict:
He’s innocent.



I’ve spent a lot of time deconstructing myself,
Lying on Freud’s metaphorical, velvety, cum-stained couch
Consulting my imaginary arm-chair psychologist,
Melting the glue
And chiseling away at the pieces of my broken ego,
Peeling off the layers like an onion,
And I realized
You were right.


I’ve realized I am indeed too young.
I still have a lot of growing to do.


You once told me:
“You’re like a bottle of fine wine,
You have to be opened at the right age
Or else it’s spoiled”.
At first, I wanted to bludgeon you with that bottle,
Slit your throat with the shards
And then note how ironically appropriate a wine comparison was
Coming from an alcoholic;
I drank away my sorrows instead.


Now, I’m raising high the white flags.
Lousy metaphors aside: you were right.
I still have growing to do.



Today is my best friend’s birthday.
She’s twenty.
I’m twenty.
I called her and we shrieked about
How frightening it is to no longer be teenagers.
At first we felt old;
She started whittling a cane
And I popped a painkiller
Because that’s what old people do, right?

But then we realized
We’re so young, we’re so goddamn young.
Assuming we both die at eighty of lung cancer
We still have sixty fucking years to go.
So much time to learn.
So much time to grow.

(We also noted how it’s a miracle that we’re alive today,
How we had both assumed we’d be dead by eighteen.
“Live fast and die young” we used to say.
And we meant it.
We don’t feel that way anymore.)


I’m excited to learn,
I’m excited to love,
I’m excited to live,
I’m excited to grow.


I’m just sorry you don’t want to be around to watch the process.
You could’ve been an excellent teacher.