i am not sure

i exist

i am not sure

my fingers are

my own

i am not sure

my atoms are decaying

under my skin

i am not sure

my heart knows

how to pump

i am not sure

whether or not

i am human

i am not sure

whether i can even


at all

but i am sure that

these things are

the least of

my worries.



too much for me

too much for you

what’s someone

like me to do?

too much sadness

far too numb

too uptight but

too undone.

too much crying

too few tears

too much time in

too few years–

too much for you

but not enough

too bad you’re too

easy to love.




i feel sick

your words

were not intended

to make me feel bad

but i am guilty

i am wrong

i am a mistake

i am sick you hate me

you hate me you hate

your words scream

at me they make me feel

sick they make me

feel shaky they

tear me down tear me apart

tear into me

a simple comment

a suggestion

you are not in the wrong

you are not to blame

it is just this,

that i am weak.




hold my hand

over the table and

i trace freckles like they will

spell out

some way to reach

your heart.

the skin of your palm

is rough and cool and

your fingers

swallow mine;

skin the color of

hot cocoa before

it is stirred against

my own.

and I wish I could kiss

the bridge of your nose

and rest my chapped

lips on your brow,

but I am too scared

to say a word

so we leave as strangers

in faded pastels

on a muted backdrop

that we will both soon forget.