"Oh how we forget
that everything is a choice
and we can decide."

Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson (via tylerknott)

(via theloversblog)


I don’t even know who I am.


I found my old clothes
Neatly packaged in cardboard boxes
Out in my garage.
I remember the fragile girl who packed them up,
Moving from a small apartment into a house she’d make a home.
Her palms sweaty, nervous, writing poems with her tongue in the
Backseat of his car.
She hadn’t smoked in several months, then,
Missing the burn of nicotine flowing through her veins.
And she wasn’t angry.

I am never wet,
Always chaffing over old wounds and
How the bookshelf is too cluttered.
I don’t know how to raise him because I never raised myself;
Maybe I am already failing.

I am awake at four AM now,
The hymn of an electric machine fluttering in my ear.
It’s the only time I have to think -
About love, divorce, how cold it’s been, where the summer might take us.
I don’t write much down anymore.
I have most of my words
Waiting patiently
At the tip of my tongue.


I have a broken
compass for a

She points me west,
Holding steady,
Reassuring me that I am headed in
The right direction.
I haven’t seen the trails for several
And I am sullen, traveling with
Blistered feet and dusty palms.
Wishing somehow there were still real
Instead of little points on a glowing
Computer screen.

I am the latitude that
lunges for you.
I am an arrowhead buried
In the sand.

I feel like I don’t need to write
Because his life is poetry

I feel like I don’t need to write
Because his life is poetry


Like a lounge singer,
You spoke to me under
Smoky lights.
Asked me how it felt to
Walk alone, to write my own
Novel on the backs of my hands.
My mouth was
Floral then,
Overgrown and so contagious
I swear my very tongue was
Printed on your skin.

You were the last known star
That burned in the back of my eyes.

Been craving a stiff drink the last few days, but I’ve held back, well aware that my body is hardly my own anymore. Feels like a vessel, now. It’s been almost one year of this, knowing I can’t be twenty-five when my friends are rubbing their heels on expensive shoes in New York City. I hate stilettos but I’m jealous, anyway.

Wonder how long this envy will last. Only two more months of limited inhales and I can forget all about the various infections I’ve had and the lack of decent REM. I’m like Rorschach’s ink blot; a mess, but some people can still see me. How, I’ll never understand. All I can find is an avenue.

We’ve been conserving heat so the hardwood floors are fucking cold and my feet feel like they aren’t a part of me. It’s funny how unregulated my temperature has been. I’m fucking crashing.

There’s just so much I didn’t know. No regrets. You were the sweetest ending.


A cigarette past midnight
And she does not understand how
People love.

The delicate flake of her
Serpent tongue, shedding
All apologies she’s whispered
Sweetly through the years.
I, a willing lover, given to her
As though I were a gem.


Some words are better left
Messy and unedited.
We were always a
In the line.


My tongue is a blood orange;
Sweet, confused, apathetic.
The small of my back a savory
Curve, splitting your ribs into
Four perfect portions.

Your breath, a drag of cigarette smoke
Held for hours in your cheek.
Holding out for winter,
Like a squirrel gathering food
Before the weather falls ill.