I don’t have enough pockets

Where do you put all this useless sadness?



I haven’t admitted this

I haven’t admitted this to anyone but

I feel as if he was the last chip that finally undid me.

“Undid” me can mean–

“undress me;”

“release me”

“made me knees-weak-crazy-in-love”


–I mean more like he made me






. . .  .   .    .

( and I just wonder,

when people come to me for help;

do they not see how



t o g e t h e r

I am?

and if they see it;

the way they see my eyes



as I nod comfortingly,

do they not feel like they are speaking

to a fraud?

that at one small touch i can





into a gibbering mess







don’t worry though i am still listening

I come running back

to poetry because–

maybe I like the way words feel

between my teeth;


the way my tongue slopes and curls

as it reads out

anger pain terror distrust–


(or maybe

I come running back to poetry because

despite the ranting–


poetry doesn’t leave me.)


Maybe my words

are woven out of



an attempt to organize

to capture

or even identify

all the shitstorms brewing

all the fucks I want to give


all the “feelings”;


Why is it the older we become

the less words we have to describe

how we are?


The less room we have to express,

The less mistakes

we can make.


(not sure this is a poem anymore. Poetry did you leave too?)


I went to sleep

I went to sleep and I dreamed many things. And I found myself in tourist Israel after a murder story in the U.S. and things were looking up. At first I was with my mom, who insisted on buying Hershey’s commercial bread, but I said no, “look we can get that at home.”

I bought common bread, Israeli bread, and when I turned around I saw him, smiling at me as if waiting.

Like we were touring Israel together.

He saw the bread and his eyes lit up, “Yaayy bread!! It’s so soft! yaay!” and it was like I lived for his smile.

We sat down on a bench outside and I looked at him for a while and it hurt so much–

that I woke up.


I’m so tired, but I can’t go back to sleep.


Maybe I never really deserved the happiness for all the pain I’ve caused in life.


Maybe the Universe just thought to loan me 10 months worth of real happiness. Just a taste of it.


The feel of a cool breeze on a hot day

or a sliver of sunshine from the door beyond a dark room.


Maybe that was enough.

I loved you most

I don’t know if it always applies to someone fresh out-of-a-relationship, but I was happiest with you. You were the one I loved the most strongly, the most purely. I had no doubts.

In this breakup, I know I didn’t do anything wrong anymore. I gave it my best, I gave it my all. You didn’t do anything wrong to me. This relationship was something special to me because I was always in the toxic ones, and you were not– you were a mango shake goddamnit.

But you were having a hard time, you weren’t sure if you loved me enough. My happiness was complete, yours was hollow.

I can’t do anything about that.

What bothers me is when I asked, “Are you going to be happy (after this?)”

And you said no.

I was so confused. Maybe I was hopeful. But in reality, maybe this was just something you had to work out for yourself. Something you had to do for yourself, like rip off a band-aid, of sorts.

I hope you do well. I’m still at that stage that I’m hoping I can love you again. That you would let me, and that you would appreciate me.

Maybe in time I’ll stop hoping for that as well.

I love you.