By 20, I hope that I am happy.
By 25, I hope that I am happy.
By 30, I hope that I am happy.
By 35, I hope that I am happy.
By 40, I hope that I am happy.
By 45, I hope that I am happy.
By 50, I hope that I am happy.
By 55, I hope that I am happy.
By 60, I hope that I am happy.
By 65, I hope that I am happy.
By 70, I hope that I am happy.
By 75, I hope that I am happy.
By 80, I hope that I am happy.

she would not let anything nor anyone defy her
so when the sun shone his oppressive gaze down on her
she stared back with just as much power
until her eyes turned to ash and her face, forever marred.

Maybe this is my story?

This is where I chose if I live or die
if I do what is wrong or right

but even in my death
I will raise my voice

my time is almost up

so hopefully

hopefully my shout will echo
echo into the masses of people

hopefully

hopefully my shout will echo
echo into the canyons of those who crouch in cowardice

hopefully
hopefully my shout will echo
echo into the spaces of the silent still too scared to speak

Hopefully

hopefully my cry of defiance
will echo farther than ever before

hopefully

hopefully people will not only hear my shout
but that their hearts will listen also

and hopefully

hopefully
hopefully a few will stand up

I’ll hang myself from your earlobe; an example to all consciences
That are the high hanging fruit in the wind
Unknowingly melting icebergs worth of salt in the eyes of a fox

To Jess

The heat, the humidity,
And the bright blankness of the sky.

Handicapped by fear, not darkness.
Shaken, yet their bodies vigilant.

Bold crimson seared through the flesh
Like fresh sin bled into it.

A conspicuous scarlet letter.
I was a public display, a warning to all.

An audience of whispers whirled before me,
But I did not waver like they did.

Cross after cross, crisis after crisis,
Crucifixion made hands sandpaper dry.

My sentence was final. A full stop.
I danced with deadly weight.

I was hell itself. I had walked through fire.
My skin marked unforgiving constellations.

So what was that little light of yours,
To a shell dead inside?

“I’m sorry I let time get away from me.”

*******.
You want to know that I still think about you.
You want to know that I still wear your shirt.
You want to know that I still have our pictures saved on my phone
(And that I still scroll through them every so often).
Well, congratulations.
I do.

But you don’t deserve to know.
And I didn’t realize it, but in time,
Your shirt would sit untouched in my drawer.
I would delete every last one of our pictures,
And your name would cross my mind,
But not nearly as often.
You don’t get to win.
I do.

I came to the sea,
where she lapped
and fled so easily,
but in my wanting
I saw her not.
…But the clouds came.
They came, they went—
and shyness was the shore
where I rested my heavy
soggy head, to offer up dreams
to the dying warm gold of grain,
in defiance to the cold n' coming rain.

her legs shake
but she pulls herself to her feet

her hands bleed
but she clenches her fists

her eyes water
but she raises them to meet mine

she stands before me
a picture of defiance

shaking legs
bleeding hands
watering eyes

she is weak
but she is strong enough