in this town
words hold hostages
not meaning.
if i cry i will
bleed, and i will
lose,
integrity and i will
rip apart the frontdrop that has
made my portraits pretty
for (maybe) minutes on end.

alternative reality needs an alternative me
and i would sacrifice
every me until
i can use my words as hooks.

mediocre poetry that
is mediocre as long as i am the poet
might look pretty, portrait pretty on
a pink paper but as long as
my face is attached
it lacks
meaning.

let me weave meaning through my words
and
free the hostages so i
can
smell your hair and embrace your neck the way
i saw a boy do
in the X grade
X day, Y year.

if my insides were made of
polypropylene, i could
swallow carpet cleaner and be fine.
my skin would burn
but i’d be fine.

this is a letter to emily:
if i die and see the goddamn heaven i will
lock the door for you to be
locked behind it so you can
know
how much i am jealous of you.

this is a letter to lauren:
if i die and see the goddamn heaven i will
devour the milk and the
honey
so i can light a fire and not
worry about the way your flesh burns
when you step in the heavenly rivers.

this is a letter to maman:
when you die and see the goddamn heaven
please,
will you let me in?

these are just words.
and i trap myself within them
with the claim that i believe in heaven
with the power to take hostage
emily, lauren, and my mom.

don’t look for a meaning.