in this town

words hold hostages

not meaning.

if i cry i will

bleed, and i will

lose,

integrity and i will

rip apart the frontdrop that has

made my portraits pretty

for (maybe) minutes on end.

alternative reality needs an alternative me

and i would sacrifice

every me until

i can use my words as hooks.

mediocre poetry that

is mediocre as long as i am the poet

might look pretty, portrait pretty on

a pink paper but as long as

my face is attached

it lacks

meaning.

let me weave meaning through my words

and

free the hostages so i

can

smell your hair and embrace your neck the way

i saw a boy do

in the X grade

X day, Y year.

if my insides were made of

polypropylene, i could

swallow carpet cleaner and be fine.

my skin would burn

but i’d be fine.

this is a letter to emily:

if i die and see the goddamn heaven i will

lock the door for you to be

locked behind it so you can

know

how much i am jealous of you.

this is a letter to lauren:

if i die and see the goddamn heaven i will

devour the milk and the

honey

so i can light a fire and not

worry about the way your flesh burns

when you step in the heavenly rivers.

this is a letter to maman:

when you die and see the goddamn heaven

please,

will you let me in?

these are just words.

and i trap myself within them

with the claim that i believe in heaven

with the power to take hostage

emily, lauren, and my mom.

don’t look for a meaning.