unfold this origami heart,
and see the way the creases
have been pressed hard,
clean lines cutting through
unintentional folds and wrinkles
in yellowing paper.

one after another the layers
begin to untuck themselves
like a gate opening to
expose something so
untouched and vulnerable

(it’s much easier to open a heart up
than it is to put it back together–
with a maze of folded parts
where does each fit?)

eyes filled with a life
that wasn’t there before,
and a glowing bright smile
as if left to charge overnight
only to blast pitched laughter when
everything and anything
suddenly becomes so much
sunnier than before.

i’ll yearn to be
alone yet again,
but there is no point in pretending
as if i’m not glad to be
out of my head and
out of the lurking static that
always seems to be right
around the corner.

(it’s hard to look at the
bright side when
everything seems so
blinding)

there’s a flower that
blooms when it’s burned,
glows brighter red
even when it crumbles
into ashes.

sweet perfume drifts
in the air,
the same as the seeds
which sends them
drifting to bloom once more.

don’t fear if the meadows
are set on fire,
because the flames will
make way for new ground.

(a flower i wish existed)

sometimes it feels like
my head is constantly leaning
against the windowsill of
a yellow school bus:

which is to say that
there is a constant rattling–
the pounding of a thousand
jackhammers all at once,
and the yelling children
from the wild unventured grounds
called “the back”
and that growing uncomfortable crick
from being too tired to stay away
but too weak to stay upright,
not that it matters when you’re
squished like a certain fish in a can.

(there is too much and
too little all at once)

those clouds are drifting by so fast
outside these windows,
shoved along by reckless wind
and the hint of a storm at
the edges of the sky.

everything is stripped of its colour,
and while there is a melancholy
loneliness in the way the world
speeds up to crash into some
disaster unknown,
for now:

I’m safe inside your arms

(and within these walls)

a quiet spot,
out of view from behind
rows and rows of books,
nestled itself away from
the noise of crowds
and the building noise of whispers

peek your head slowly
around the corner and
smile slightly when you see
two children asleep,
heads leaning on each others’
shoulders oh-so-gently

(it’s not nap time,
but you’ll find a blanket
for them anyways)

an awkward silence
stretched between
time and space,
with black holes swallowing
every single thought had by
two still figures trapped
within tiny walls and
the several floors still left to go.

the unspoken words felt
almost too loud in a
silence that felt more like
a dance on the edge of a blade
and a single breath being the
tipping point between
the snapping of a thin thread or
managing to cling on a little longer.

they’ll step off on their
respective floors,
too afraid to draw close enough
to touch a heart that is only
a foot away

(what would have happened if
that elevator stopped and
you took that chance to
speak)

cigarette butts still burning
in the dish on the
windowsill of a motel room
you’ve seen the inside of
far to often this past month.

ugly wallpaper and thin sheets,
but at least the balcony
allowed some imagined freedom
but instead of a cage
you’ve only got the bars of
these encounters that were
never meant to happen.

repeating mistakes was
never your style,
so why do you wear their
touch as if you were a model
and allow their kisses to flutter down
your collarbone like
a feathered collar?

(a shape of a body waits
under the covers,
but you take the couch again)

track listened to: cinnamon girl – lana del rey

sometimes he wonders about the
violet in the distance
that he sees sometimes in
the edges of a dream he can
recall once having —
with petals that kept
falling onto a dew layered grass.

however,
not once did the
petals run out from
the tiny flower.

the pile only grew
larger and larger
until the petals falling were
no longer violet
but black

(he wonders if he should
worry about such a dream)

i miss the worlds and
the characters that
used to dance in my head
and their petty little fights
and words that would make you
hang onto every single letter.

they were people of their own I’m sure
and they were made of people that i know.
they’re the ones we’ve never met
and maybe will meet,
but for now they’re stuck in those pages
within scribbled lines
and frantic writing:
a world beyond my own
somewhere so close and so far

(my tiny little world)