There’s a knot

Of anger and sadness

Seated deep in the pit of my stomach.

During the day, I bury it with food

Or try to sweat it out

Or ignore it by turning my music up too loud.

But at night, when I lay it bed, I can feel it

Twisting and growing.

I poke at it.

I think about it

And it grows more and more.

And when it’s too big for my stomach, it reaches up and grips at my heart too.

There’s a knot

Of anger and sadness

And I don’t know how to untangle it


I’ll be your poem,

If your tongue can be the pen.

Write your words across my chest

And down my neck.

Let me hear the rhymes play behind my ears

And the rhythm sway my hips.

Long lovely lines licked along my lips.

Slow sultry sentences stretched on my skin.

I’ll be your paper

Your audience

Your craft.

You be the poet

The speaker

The heart.

You’re moving gently down the page; pen

Pressed against paper so soft

Dip your pen in the ink.

Swirl it around

Find the spot.

The passion over takes you

Faster and faster.

The sounds of pen touching paper create the music you get lost in.

Almost there.

One more line.

All of this

Is mine.



They tell me to stop writing about you

But it’s not even you anymore.

Because the you I write about is

Everything I wish you were

And nothing that you are.

The you I write about loves me.

The you I write about is brave.

The you I write about didn’t leave when things got tough, or when you didn’t want me.


I can’t stop writing about you because it isn’t even you anymore.

You no longer are the boy I was in love with at 16

Or the girl who changed everything.


Yes, you are the sarcasm and the wit – But you’re also the

Raw sexuality of the woman living across the country.

You’re the smolder of the guy I met in a bar two years ago.

You’re my best friend’s kind eyes.

You’re the warm embrace I crave, but never receive.

You’re the eye contact that I’ve never held before now.

You’re the piercings and tattoos that pique my interest.

You’re the person I want my mom to meet,

And the lover who should never leave my bed.


You’re the one who says, “Let’s take a picture”

And you’re the questions he asks about my day.

You’re the prom date whose apology came three years too late.

You’re the male dancer who I gave consent to pin my arms above my head, and placed his hands on my body.

You’re the nice hair of everyone I’ve ever liked.

You’re the smile I need when I can’t smile myself.

You’re the care and attention I give to others, but don’t receive back.


I don’t write about the same you anymore.

I don’t write about the love I had or my obsession that pushed us forward then pulled us back.

I don’t write about the begging you’ve started four years later.

I don’t write about your laughter or how we both used each other.

I don’t write about how you made me feel.


I don’t write about the same you anymore.

I write about the yous I’ve known and the yous I haven’t met.

I write about a you that I can see with me.



A Sonnet for Sonnet’s Sake

Here. Here is a sonnet for sonnet’s sake.

A song to a loved one I never had

Because the last one I loved was a snake—

Months proving I know how to pick them bad.


This is not for him, but it could be yours.

The love who I know will walk through the door,

The one to hold me when it rains, then pours.

The one I can prove I love so much more.


The love I know is messy and it hurts.

It’s school-girl crushes, and Riley, and her.

It’s longing, and being left with their shirts.

It’s annoyance where those memories were.


But, I’m done that now and waiting for you—

My one true love. The one I can call, “boo.”


I Like Smart Girls

I cannot tell you how many times my sex appeal has been determined

By my intelligence

Yet, once I talk,

I am ignored.


My intelligence is not yours to fetishsize.

You do not get to fuck me because you like

Smart girls.


I am not here to fulfill your fantasy of a hot school girl

On her knees

Peering up at you through

Black rim glasses; her buttons of her blouse

Popped open.


I am not your fantasy.

And you will not impress me with declarations of books

You haven’t read.


I am not your fantasy.

You do not get to touch my boobs if you cannot

Touch my brain.


I am not your fantasy.

I won’t stop talking about ideas so I can

Put on a show.


You are not aware of what you are getting into.

My soul is deeper than you could even imagine –

And you will sink before you can

Convince me to

Blow you.


My intelligence is real and with it comes


And confidence that will send you backtracking.


I am smart,

And impressive.

I am hot,

And intelligent.

But I do not dress in knee high socks and plaid mini skirts.

My white blouse is not knotted under my breasts to

Entice you.


My book will not suddenly close because you have opened your mouth.

You – a simple boy – has shown interest in the poor geeky girl –

Now attractive.


My intelligence is not a cover for

Poor self-confidence.

It is not to fill a void from years

Of being ignored.


Your appreciation is one of many,

But I am not yours to appreciate.


You are not the first to praise

Me for my intelligence as if it is

Something that ultimately belongs to



You are not the first to whistle when I mention my

Fields of study.

You are not the first to want to run your hands over my body

Like you think I run my hands over books

(Clearly, you need to try reading a book).


I will always be smart.

And you will always be another asshole

Who tried to use it to get me in