sometimes you wake up and your heart is an ocean: too big to gather into the reigns of your arms, sand crusted into your ventricles. you could whisper stories of sunsets sliding behind mountains, of cacti growing from your desert ribcage but it’s never enough. when you lick your lips, you still taste the salt of the sea bubbling up your throat. when you gasp for air, your lungs still swell with waves too wild to out-swim.

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she falls asleep eating her teeth, the desert in her bones. always thirsty for something that burns, her gums bleed pleas for an explanation of everything: the jaguars, the mountains, the hole in her chest.

in the morning, it will all be the same.

personal poetry

falling in and falling out

this is only a dream he says from the couch and his lips are something I thought I remembered but they only taste like smoke. one day this will all make sense, he says, but I’m not as disillusioned as I used to be. I can see through walls, through the chambers of his heart and I don’t even know if I want to anymore. ignorance is bliss, I say to the objects in the next room.

they don’t answer and I don’t know if I expected them to anyway.

personal writing poetry poem