the floor is dotted with tears,
my fingers too short to wrap you inside them.
it's sad how the cotton caves of bed covers
separate us. barely three hours into your dreams
you will start hogging the blanket again and
expose me to the world. you used to hide me
from strange devouring eyes.

as my side of the pillow gets wet i think of
the ocean. my toes in the sand. my nose
stuffed with unspoken comebacks and goo.
i can't find the toilet paper.

i feel how your vanilla skin churned inside my thighs
accompanied by explosions of galactic dust in me.
my love is revolting magma. i want to draw my homeland
on your skin with my fingers and find my meaning in connecting
the dots of your imperfections. i love you because when you sleep,
your body becomes warmer than morning coffee.

The tragic hero

I've traveled lengths of a hundred baseball fields only to find I haven't moved from the spot where you left me. At night, after falling stars hide their faces from my eyes, I like to play blind, as shadows pull shapes.

I am the self-proclaimed ill-fated child who stops northern winds with her bare chest and pounces the world from behind, after it stomps her and starts running away. I am the daughter of many tragedies and the grandchild of a hero.

I miss the shelter you used to embrace me with.