Hera

Dad —

There are things I don’t understand.  

Things about the oceans,  

the gods, the seasons.  

How atoms spin endlessly in the void,  

how we breathe in chaos and exhale  

stillness.  

I used to think these mysteries were beautiful,  

but now, they are nothing more than noise,  

like static—  

and the voices in my head,  

questions closer to home

I cannot answer.

Like, why do we love the ones who hurt us  

and hurt the ones we love?  

Why does betrayal only bloom where trust once grew?  

At what age does a child learn the art of deception?  

Is it something you taught me without words?

The world owes Mom an awful lot.  

She suffocates us with her giving,  

and I wonder—  

Do you see it?  

Do you know what it costs her  

to fill this empty house with

pieces of herself?

I wonder—  

if all of us are victims of this world,  

who is the perpetrator?  

Is it fate? Is it you?  

Is it me who’s part of the silence,

holding in truth like smoke I refuse  

to release?

I can't help but think—  

Why do you stay in a home full of ghosts?  

Does love spoil, like milk

left too long in the fridge?  

Do lies have an expiry date too?  

Or do they sit, festering, until they poison  

everything around them?

Gravity has a way of making me

feel small.  

Every waking moment, I drag

my feet through a river of questions  

I know I can’t answer.  

There’s a storm beneath my ribs—  

I can’t tell if it’s rage or grief,  

or if it’s particles colliding

on what was once a crowded dance floor,  

but it’s drowning me all the same.  

I’m standing in the ruins of something  

I thought was unbreakable,  

and I no longer know how to rebuild.

 

Mom has given everything—  

her skin, her breath,  

her heart until it’s threadbare,  

and still, she stands.  

I don’t know if I will ever understand  

what made you tear at the seams,

why you chose to shatter  

the woman who gave us everything.  

And in the end, I don’t know if I can ever forgive you.

- Your daughter

triangle of sadness

everything i wanted you to tell me

dissolved in a breath of salt.

this year was a cup

half empty.

i am only ever water— 

one part ocean, one part rain,

endlessly dwelling in

the labyrinth of blue.

each step forward is swallowed

by the tides behind.

i woke up from a dream  

(in which i spoke a foreign language),

to the the vowels slipping

through my fingers like vapor,

and the words returning

to the sea like storm.

my longing guts

reach for the door.

on the other side is a season—

she can leave or linger if she wishes.

oh alien planets! they never

have to know what comes after spring.

but my moon pulls me back,

the more i push, the more i drift.

like the ocean, i return

to where i began.

I Wish I Could Go Back to the Two Times I Loved You

Sitting at the two ends of your couch, we were guessing the colors of our eyes. What a dangerous game. As we moved closer and closer, the bourbon you poured got the best of us. I didn’t know chaos could be so quiet.

And once, you came back from your trip, and showed up at my apartment unannounced. You showed me the black and white films you developed. I had never understood their aesthetics, until a photograph of me came up - a Saturday morning at yours, still in my pajamas holding the cup of coffee you brewed me. I never saw colors the same way again.

Ricochet

Tiptoeing through the shards of yesterday,

cadences trapped in my throat, aching to escape.

A feud beneath the huntsman's moon, mashed in the marrow,

growing outward as the yearning gut in my body expanded in quietness.

My tongue, sometimes a gun,

on better days, a double-edged sword,

whetted by a world that never learned

to whisper.

Do uncut truths hold the same weight
as a saint's vowels?

I was taught not to make a sound

when a wild slaughter grew loud.

Yet, within the storm, a voice lingers,

my phantom limb remembers

no longer to gatekeep a cartridge,

fired, and could have been echoes of defense.

Only now do I see an amputee.

Funny how I called it me.

Interstellar

The anatomy of constellations on your couch -
our skins mantling two solar systems, one running
endlessly after another but could never get there
fast enough.
Our chests exposed like two caskets 
holding pain as if it was all
we were made of.

Ambience tapped on your window,
you let Winter swallow it whole.
I stared into your eyes and remembered darkness.
So I begged you to set me on fire
until my bones became stardusts,
dissolving into the night
into you.

You poured us your favorite scotch as you watched
me burn,
then you rained gently on me
like early summer that tempered the flame.
My body, so honest, I am a walking overdose of pain.
I can't lie to myself. I chase it again
and again, and again.

Aren't my legs tired of running
in an orbit I don't belong,
my arms tired of reaching
your hand that won't open.
I swear this is the last time I come down
like meteors poured from your cosmos.
I know now, I can't hold what won't hold me.