little brother.

it's been eleven, almost twelve years
that your name has been on my tongue
syllables dancing on taste buds'
sweet as memories,
sweet as childhood.
it's been five years that i refrain from
saying it like it's comfortable.

the thought of you
makes me uncomfortable.
you are freckling into insecurities
like a growing girl,
and shrinking into addictions
like television shows.

my imagination catches me breath,

and i never know what to say.
you are past emerging,
i often picture you swerving
into the wrong curb.


little brother,
you are moving backwards.
you are turning nocturnal.
i don't bother knocking on your door anymore
i always know what you are doing
and i know you're just sleeping,
tired because the day has been long
but you look an awful lot like you're breaking.

can't tell the difference
between the moon and the sun
between me and your mum,
you are curling into balls of body,
of little brother,
and i am a body of worry.
i told my self i'd start worrying
when insomnia kicked in.
when static screens were more important that sleep.

but you do nothing but sleep
when it is time to be alive.
brother, you are unfurling into erratic behaviors
and i can see your future
in every reaction to things
that don't go the way you planned,
and i often pray you don't believe in karma.

brother, sometimes i think
that if you just pulled back the curtains,
and turned of the television,
you could be human
could be happy,
could learn how to smile,
and how to empathize with humanity.
understand what your mother means
when she talks about africa and your picky eating
could understand that the meaning of life
isn't getting another one.

i need you to understand
that family ties will be cut,
if you never cut these habits
these images are the saddest i have ever seen.
i need you to understand
that i am holding on to you
by a thread,
brother, get out of bed
and figure out how to live,
or i'm letting go.

tangles.

you are an ocean away
built like a shield,
body built like a mask.

you tell me you're okay.
tell me you're stable,
you're holding me up, so
you can't fall down.

but sometimes i know it's tempting.

so i say prayers for your decisions,
fingers folded like my rib cage
i am heaving,
breathing words
like tears

like stop being afraid
of crying.
you act strong like wood,
but i see worried wrinkles
like tree bark,
like  furrows in their trunk,
in their branches, in your brow.

you need to know
that judgement isn’t a side-dish
to your vulnerability.

i imagine the word ‘fear’
written along the curves of your feet,
and ‘escape’ along your heels,

but i am this close
to setting traps
to tripping up your feet
to tangling your limbs
and your words,
tangling your thoughts
to make you stay a moment
and realize

you don’t have to be okay
for me.

LESBIANS ROCK

Roses are red
And violets are PURPLE
Kanika is the coolest prettiest most fantastic person ever
Uhh.... Nothing rhymes with purple


<3

for gabriela.

it has been
eight months.

of regret.
of me thinking i did
what was best.
since the day i put
our relationship to the test.

eight months of
me folding my fingers
into prayers and into nervousness
singing hymns
of me wishing for forgiveness.

you left me
as empty
as the translucent jam jars
i used to keep our joint happiness in.
i swear, if you tried,
you could see right through me.

but i rarely let you see me.
because it has been eight months of
watching you deteriorate.
you used to be 70 % smiles, 29 excitement, and 1 % chai tea.
now all that i can see
is your fate,  and you are full of it.

and i spend my days
watching you fall through holes
and i waste my breath
speaking words
that never full go through your head
i bet
that you haven't read the last letter i sent you
since the first time i did.

gabriela,
i built my life
like a house
around a post.
of skin and bones,
you are skin and bones,
and i built my life,
like a goal,
around your limbs,
i would give anything to call you kin,
to call you sister
call you what ever i did back when things were right.
i would have given anything to save you.

please listen to me,
i would give.
anything.
to save.
you.




it's been eight months
since i made the mistake
of giving up.

christy brown.

the first word
that you ever wrote was
mother.
and it curled against your spine
as if it was your backbone.
this memory
could hold you upright.

you held inspiration for your paintings
under each foot step you could never take,
and each time i witnessed your heartbreak,
my pulse slowed down
a little.

your face was always in a frown,
but the first time i saw you
smile,
i had shivers down my
spine,
as if your mother
had come back to
life,
and suddenly,
you could walk,
and trail a tail of your inspiration
behind your feet.

paycheck.

i feel
like my sides have paper edges
my skin
has numbers scrawled
like they are freckles.
like, each home
is just an envelope
and i'm just a set of photo copies.
i am next month's hydro
and half of february's heat.
i am
"take a seat,
it's time for number seven"
this one
will be different.

for elisa.

1.  I remember summer like
abandoned boat houses, mornings at the bay, and naps on the dock.
like, for the next two months we will count our sins on fingers and at least three times a day be considered holy.
like, divinity in the form of sun cast down on fields and modesty in the walls of green buildings.
i remember summer like safe.
summer like love.
like home.

2.  You, came to us in the middle.
with bright eyes and guards right up.
you came with gifts, and you came with no intentions.
and you left with a tan and a few scratches.

3.  I, call you 'Birdy'
you are not feathered nor hollow boned,
but your hair is a blackbird shade of mystery
and sometimes i catch you dancing in the back of the room during church services.
you tell me that your feet don't hurt,
and sometime i think that you're lying,
and just believe the pain is worth it.

4.  I remember September like
goodbyes and snail mail,
like calling you beautiful.
Like wishing you were here with your tan and your scratches,
and your mystery.
I remember yesterday
like repeat
repeat
repeat.

5.  I miss you.

christmas eve, 2009.

he tells me
he can't.

it is christmas eve.
and he is not sleeping.
in a shared room of dresser dividers and walls made of bed sheets.
i know this isn't ten year old excitement.
he's just breathing.

i notice absense of snoring
through my television static
ask him the question.

he tells me
he can't.

he feels
like he isn't alive.

regardless of his breathing.

he tells me
he can't.

smoke.

suddenly without registering myself I fell
I'd sworn against liberty of heart,
built my own cage with solid hands
with straight and pointy nails
kept extras near my palm for protection
and then here you brought a torch
and smoked me out.


we
do not care
for the consequences of
classes skipped or filters between
our lips.
we are rebellion,
wishing we could be revolution
but sometimes nicotene and relaxation
is more appealing than learning manifestation tactics.

I smoked you
with my fist first,
then my knee into ribs, my fingers into hair
I smoked your mouth
between teeth
with curling curling mouth
I smoked

passenger seat
of his creaking car.
slamming doors, and tires turning
the asphalt black as my burnt toes,
i will walk towards my fate.
let the trail of your exhaust exhaust me.
and the rope of your smoke and your lack of regrets
tie me to railroad spikes.
trails don't come here anymore.

it was thought most foxy
most femme fatale to frightfully smoke up my eyes
charcoal like excuses
I blink and then like the glare of a thousand miners,
romance curdles itself
and I am just smudgy.

-- with zoe jacqueline duhaime.

bright lights.

She was a dream girl. She followed the amygdala caged in her white skulled mind like a road map. Since she was a starry eyed child with little fingers dancing through ringlet hair, she dreamt in a bed of glitter. She had visions of mazes with brick walls and dandelions in the corners, and what was so appealing to clams about those small holes in the muddy sand at the ocean down the road. As she grew older, her eyes grew more dull, and her fingers grew out of her skin and her ringlets grew into waves. Her mind changed. She dreamt of being trapped in the circle of yellow cascading out of streetlights until the sun woke up, and she was free. She dreamt of scary men with countdown watches sitting in bus stations, waiting for something that was nothing to her, but was anything for them. She dreamt instructions. Run down that empty, abandoned road until you reach desolate spots where civilization cannot branch out and you can barely feel your feet skidding across the pavement, because all you can feel is your being taking the shape of a lion. This, is the spot where magic lives. Go there. Escapism, and the owl that was perched in the ragged branches of the tree that situated itself in her childhood friend's backyard. He flapped his wings in the sky and wore glasses in fantasies and story books. This is where wisdom lives. Go there. The eyes of young girls and teenage boys, back when they both contained stars, and damsels painted their nails pink. Before they wore lipstick and stopped wearing dresses. When kisses were like cash in a barter economy. This is where love lives. Go there, and fill your tear ducts with what they are selling for free. You need to cry the way you used to. When your eyes were still filled with stars. Give your fingers a rest, and let them shrink back into soft skin cages. Let them be comfortable in flesh blankets and let them sleep. You need to go down to the ocean that inspired you to be so interested in clams and driftwood and beach glass that displayed your reflection and reconstruct your hair. Create brunette springs with salt water instead of electronics and live in the trees. Use your newly reborn fingers to make tidal waves and dream. This is your amygdala speaking, Sleeping Beauty. Use me as your road map. I will guide you through brick wall mazes with dandelion flowers in the corners to the coast that you've forgotten. I'll be the blinders on the side of your eyes, distracting you with solid images of what's ahead from the signs on the sidelines stating that Nevada is only six dreams to your left. There are no oceans there. Only deserts of dry grains of sand that will whisper devil's delusions into your mind. Las Vegas is only bright lights. The future is soft and full of glitter coating your bed.