we find ourselves here often
slouching on pavement
a group of kids
who should know better
who do but don’t bother

the wind pulls up
soft around us
whistling through the air
a perfect taunt
falling on familiar ears
we don’t cry
it isn’t nearly worth it

running
is a language
we speak
until the bottoms
of our shoes
peel free
pounding feet
a drum beat
gasping for air
in the twilight heat

breathlessness comes
with weightlessness
lifting us
into the blushing sky
leaving the best pieces
of ourselves behind

the soiled souls
we leave on concrete
are scraped up
put into jars
sold to the rich kids to spread
on their toast
they tell us it tastes like the bottom
of someone’s foot

like rainwater down a windshield
or midsummer sweat off a young child’s back
why did no one tell me memories had minds of their own?
now they pool in the gutter where my feet are planted
now they cling to my skin and smell

It wasn’t until I met you,
(and got to know you, there is a difference)
that I learned candy poison exists,
and, most importantly, that you are devoid of it.
Still, you paint your skin in its color,
a loud pink screaming bright glitter,
streaming insistently down your cheeks.
You hide fragility behind fierceness,
a blue green set deep in your eyes,
shimmering and clear as a broken bottle.
(If you would let me,
I would count the fractals of glass in your irises.)
It is not up to me to decide which color most becomes you.
But know if you were to extend a painted palm to me,
I would take it and stain mine to match.

it’s a rough-and-tumble feeling
our hands just barely touching
every second skips by on the tips of its toes
before it trips down my half-closed throat
I’m barely breathing
the crevice of my chest sore as a skinned knee
right where each pang rings out
pain unbounded, evidence of my feeling

I think it’s a lovely thing to have a friend
he crouches by the water, at my side
I can talk to him for hours and that’s enough
I can see it now, my reflection shivering back at me
simple things are the world to me
does he see it too?
a joke, a shrug, a smile
I hope and fear he can
this feeling is constant
with him I can see myself
warm and familiar
crystalline and whistling
with him I can breathe easy
it’s not always clear but it’s me
breathe in sunbeams
there’s a great beauty in sinking, falling, even
it’s a lovely thing
a purifying shiver
these small slivers of an hour
so cold but great, swallowing me whole
bring about the faintest whispers of an ache
he pulls me out by my wrists, talks in a low voice
does he see me?
he lays me down on the crackling grass and I can hear his footsteps retreating
like I see him?
all I can think is: breathing was such a lovely thing
it was warm and close and lovely, and most importantly, it was with you, my friend

(a response to 14. by Emmanuel Moses)

Does it ache for you even a little bit?
Where the sternum sits?
Jellied and red as the inside of a lip.

Unresolved questions tend to sink
into one’s skin, like tattoo ink,
and start to grow moss and stink.

Do you grovel for the answers too?
Bruised knees in the gravel, the way that I do?
Do I love detesting you, or detest loving you?

I crave detachment's ease.
To hate would feel free,
cathartic as stripping bark from a tree.

a few seconds between us
makes time stretch on a taffy pull
into long hours

are you too good for everything?
not all the time
leave these conversations with me
I have a habit of hearing things better with my back turned
do you want to talk to me?
I do, I swear
and I to you?
I hope so
I’m tired of it all too
I want to tell you that when the seconds stretch I don’t mind too much

it makes me want to club my neighbor’s mailboxes in slow motion

take a bat to the back of my skull
watch it crack apart
dig out the fresh meat
fleeting flesh
I’ll brush the hair aside

I’m playing hard now
hard to get and getting hard
stumbling home again in a trance
bloodcrust forms once more
I’ve invited it

the blooming wounds
they’re exciting to me every time
the gritty feeling that they bring expands
from the back of my throat to my knees
the shimmering dark of a galaxy
stinging and sweet

I feel my cheeks talking / flora and gore / as I pick my face and hope flowers will grow from it

slow and red / flaking skin like petals / I will it to fall as lovers do / quick and complete / blood moves forth / dripping vines / to tangle and choke / raw wounds

and I consider / why do I do this / picking / growing blossoms on my blooming face / a perennial practice / and I think it is because I know / beauty is all that dies

I’ve got bruises on my knees for you
bruises on both my knees for you
pink and black and blue
you know I’m such a fool for you
I’m fine if you tell me to bruise
color me blue

Bruises by Chairlift
bad guy by Billie Eilish
Linger by The Cranberries
Bruise by Yumi Zouma
Norman fucking Rockwell by Lana Del Rey

nose oil / makes my skin creamy / pig slick and
pore breathing / gold / gleaming / blotting sheets /
ain’t gonna cut it honey / smear it around / powder
sludge / the concealer is loosey-goosey now / so
much / you could fry an egg / on all this oil! / there’s
no sweat / streaming / I’m cold if anything / and still
pushing sebum / pressed in with fingertips

The night splashes over every face in inky murk.
The few lights illuminate us. Glowing amber.
Headphones in. Pheromones on. Telephone sin.
Secreting sweat sweetly. Pit perfume. Nose oil.
Chatter quick before you’re told to be quiet.
Glitter dressed and slick speaking. Rumors swirling.
Echo chamber pop. Limbs sprawling. Languid motion.
Sit in the right circle and you’ll be happy.
Photograph flash in the mirror back to us.
Butterfly stomachs, a spiderweb of hearts.
Pizza breath. Check your hair in the mirror.
Every set of eyes drifts to one body in particular.
Strutting in stress.
Heels clicking. Immanent shifting.
Gazes drifting to our own reflections too.
Cooing over those who get lucky.
The fan whirs fragrant whispers about
and skirts afloat.
Mirrored walls trap the sounds in.

I can wholeheartedly say that making this collection would not have been possible without the support and encouragement of several people throughout this process.

Thank you to Easton Cluck and Miguel Lucero for contributing to and assisting with the art in my collages. Your drawing skills blow me away!

To my peers in the Media Arts Department, I could not ask for a better group of hardworking, talented, and entertaining people to have the pleasure of working beside every day. I’m going to miss all of you so much.

To my arts teachers, Jessi Meliza, Snežana Žabić, and Jake Hinkson, thank you for your guidance and patience amongst all the workshop drafts, endless questions, and conversations that go off on tangents.

To my fellow Seniors, my, what a journey it's been. And sometimes it seems like it only just started.

Finally, thank you to you, whoever is reading this! Reaching a reader in any kind of away is all that a writer can hope for.