there’s a strange kind of melancholy
in the finished lines of knowing
that a book has finally ended
and there will be no more world building

it’s 4:13am and I lie here
a runners high building up
to the crash
of all the ways I threw myself

into the storylines and the flash
of love and sorrow and pain in pages
into the narratives and bylines
and the me and you between the spaces

because that’s the thing
about these romance books
I say I read them
just for fun

but I know I read them because
in every line I see remnants
of my past loves
so here I go to pick another one

it’s 3:09am on thursday
another romcom novel
lies
in my
lap

racing through it as i read
the same kinds of stories
yes, i know the ending, because

i need the
happy
ever
all-the-things

i guess i am no better
since i am a sucker for all the sap

i zip past the plotted out pain
skim through the lines
and find the ink-to-page artifice of love

it’s not real, yes, but
fills an ache-
(though never truly really fills)

of what you left behind
and how you’ve ruined me
at best

the dopamine
or cathartic thrill
dies down by the very last

but i always pick
back up these books
knowing my HEA is coming

   just
       around
         the
    bend

do i still believe it’s coming?

is happily really
meant for
me?

or is it just for the select few?

i revived this space
and came back
really just to say-

i heard you kissed
another girl
the night before
your wedding day

i used to hate having
     my photo taken

to see every flaw and imperfection on display.

i used to hate
    the photos taken

the ones you glued into our scrapbook.

but now?
i love the photos given

& what they do to me.

for before
it felt like memories stolen

a painful reminder of
love
lost

today?
it reminds me of memories given
all the love we gave

it's scrapbooked in my memory
and brings a smile to my brain

so thank you for the photos taken
as they no longer bring me any pain.

i lost myself
so i went for a drive
& the cracked payment led me here

i then pulled to the side
          on that foggy night ride
& remembered my dreams
& the mountains i'd climbed
& the dragons i'd slain
& the nights i was weak
     - but decided to stay,
          if only for
                         one
                            more
                               try
                                  to just stay
just stay,
oh please,
please stay.

so on that foggy night drive
i found myself
   on the edge of that bridge
just repeating a phrase

& then i realized:
my soul is fierce,
my heart is brave,
& from here is where all the best stories are made.

i'm not sure when
we turned the corner,
but i'm not sure that i mind.

your laugh echoes through
the small cracks he left,
but they fill them quite well, i find.

so it's hard to write
just quite the words
to explain the flutters inside,

but my heart does this thing
when you smile
just like the moon pulls on the tides.

im lying here in bed wondering when we will meet again, and angry that i trusted you with words no one else has read.

you took my firsts- my words and touches, and i assumed you would be my last, but you took them and never looked back.

i guess that's why i haven't written on paper since.

My country is full of people
too violent and dumb to be anything else.
We value money, bodies, and your stuff
because it is not ours yet.

My flag is wrapped around some
white-trash hick's *******.
You look different than us and
that is ******* terrifying;
please leave while we stay
in your country,
'protecting you'.

My country is home to
religious freedom, as long
as the religion is Christianity.

My country is the world's
greatest melting ***, but
we'd prefer all ingredients
to be the same or die.

My country is a joke,
thinking it's the standard
the world desires to achieve.

My country is the world police,
creating tension, harassing you,
hating you, taking from you.