I collect stories

from whispered conversations,
comment sections,
and people brave enough
to tell the truth.

I borrow trauma
from words spoken in confidence,
from strangers
and friends.

I translate them
into poems of my own.

Different timelines.
Alternative names.
New beginnings.
Dramatic endings.

I write about things
that never happened
to me.

Still,

my readers search
for a reason
to throw me a lifeline,

as if every voice
on the page

must be my own.

If you call to me
I will drag my skinny ass to you
No matter the wounds compounded
I will drag your ass to safety
If I cannot make it in time, you know I tried to

I’m not sure I could spot reality
In a police lineup. Who could?
Shoulder-to-shoulder with simulations,
Hallucinations, copies, interpretations,
Some slapdash, some with
Production values surely too lavish
For reality’s paltry budget.
I’m not sure the last time
I saw it—before I left home for good,
Perhaps, before home wasted away
In molds and smokes and dead skin flakes.

I have a hunch that it would shrink away
From an interrogation lamp,
Shrivel away, leave us
With nothing but bare walls and empty
Hands.

I search the suspects
For birth marks, acne, graying hair,
That which would otherwise
Be airbrushed away. When one of them
Breaks wind, all chuckle but one,
Who continues to stare out as though
In a daze; tattoos climb its arms
Like termites up a rotted door frame.
I suspect it’s the one, though I don’t
Recognize it. So the officer asks it
To strip down: mullet, eyes, chin, chest,
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera…

The work isn’t the hard part anymore.

Convincing yourself that the work still matters…
that’s what’s hard.

You show up.
You sacrifice.
You keep your word.
You do the things you promised you would,
even when nobody is watching.

Yet somehow,
the weight doesn’t get lighter.
The setbacks keep coming.
The doubts get louder.
The finish line seems determined
to move every time you get close.

So you start asking questions:

Is this worth it?
Am I wasting my time?
How much more can I carry
before something finally gives?

Well…maybe that’s the test.

Not whether you can keep going
when everything is working…
but whether you can take one more step
when nothing seems to be.

May she who knows 

how to chisel the key to

these glass cages

please come forth &

speak truth into me.

How does it haunt you?

To look into the eyes 

of your only believer

and snatch their faith

right from their hands?

How does it feel to 

dissolve ties such as these 

with something as simple 

as your silver tongue?

do I ignore it,
when the storm clouds gather,
knowing I should pay no attention?

or do I hunker down,
tie myself off, brace
against the crashing waves?

foam-frothed currents rip me away,
back to our stories of old,
blue dressed, swinging scabbards, and ticking clocks

pirate hats,
palms outstretched toward salty, safe, sea breezes
applause carried to waterfall faeries
keep them — and us — afloat

but it’s hard to remember
that part of the story
where you ran us aground

all treasure lost, 
a castaway — 

deserted, marooned, and crewless

— left to the dangerous depths.
                                                                                
with only my featherless cap, 
soft sheath now swordless, 
silent hands, cut on jagged rocks,

and the promise
of no return.

This efficiency apartment is the definition
         of sterile, soul-draining–
it could be emptied in five minutes.

Barebones, the bed comes out of the wall,
           hard, neutral surfaces,
nothing inviting, memorable.  But in all

this spartan starkness, a small potted
            orchid, the kind you pick
up in a grocery store in a white plastic cup

saying someone human was here trying
           to bring a breath of beauty
into this spare comfortless space.
     

When I was seventeen I had insomnia.
I would sneak out around midnight
and wander up towards the man-made lake.
The reflection of the moon in the water looked
like God’s great eye, winking at me in the ripples
as if there was some joke He thought I was in on.

After a while, I would leave God at the lake
and wander once more, towards the
Mormon temple—My mom was a night custodian there.
Rebellious teenager that I was, I would
sit quietly outside and wait,
wanting to make sure she made it home safe.