On the Distribution of One’s Heart (A Haiku Quintet) I had given my heart to someone who didn’t know how to hold it. Instead, they cradled it like an adolescent with a stranger’s child: awkward and uneasy, with a fear of falling head first and snapping. I gave my heart to someone who didn’t quite want it and was surprised when they gave it back. They said to keep it safe, but their fingers left bruises.
Chennette
I was born like a chennette: My green mother- sliced open down the middle, And me- squeezed out. Pink, sticky, sour.
Drowning
Drowning (A Haiku Pair) I am drowning. You have oversaturated me, but I need it. You overwhelm me. I gasp for air but choking never felt so good.
Going The Distance
Have you ever gone through your personal poetry archives and stumbled upon an old piece that, at the time of writing, you were convinced was absolutely awful, but now that you’ve given it some space, it turns out it wasn’t too bad after all? This piece is one of them. It’s almost a year old and no longer personally relevant, but I hope you like it. Distance pulls heartstrings taut While memory taunts Sighs go unanswered Empty promises fill Where your touch should be. Silence breeds disquiet: I quietly wonder If it’ll be worth it in the end.