I don’t think I can love you.
Because love it utterly entagled in brokenness,
and I’m still leaving pieces of me
I forget in the sheets.

I don’t think I’m ready to love you,
because I know that’s a kind of hurt
detonated under my skin.
I’ve got a list hanging against my wall
of reasons to keep living
and already I’m scared one day
it’s not going to work.

I don’t think I know how to love you.
Because you’re going to make me feel
a kind of happiness I don’t know how to take,
and it’ll leave when you lock the door behind you.
To be honest, I haven’t practiced my smile
for quite some time.


late night thoughts, early morning poems.


It scares me the way I love you,
the kind of terrifying out of horror movies—
less gore, more up until 3:17 in the morning
because I cannot rinse your name out of my brain
and dreaming isn’t enough.

It scares me the way I love you,
because I know I’ve fallen in deep before,
but God, I don’t know where you hid the floor,
because I’m still falling. 

It scares me the way I love you,
becase I’ve learned it’s not having the perfect words
to say, with lit candles and rom-com movies,
or pictures at the beach, or the mountains, or Colgate smiles.
Loving you is feeling.
It’s like lightning struck every rib,
it’s the taste of morning breath, 
the smell of gasoline.
It hurts, and it doesn’t and it’s a well-timed disaster,
but I’m here for the long run.
There’s not a single thing more I’d want.



i wanna date someone and live with them in a shitty apartment but be happy about it because we are happy together and we can decorate it with stupid dorky posters of shit we like and figurines and art and we can cook weird recipes we found on the internet and eat them and watch cartoons even if the food is gross because we made it and we’re perfect