what keeps you up at night?

If we could travel at the speed of light we would see our younger selves somewhere in this galaxy breathing, moving, living casually shackled by gravity just like we are right now. What would we say to them?

never quite knowing what it means            to be alive.

If I’d known – If I’d known. I’ve always known.

Felt it. Here. Inside. Here.

I’ll be there, next to you, in a moment, in a second that will inaugurate time.

I want to feel the way that the moon feels. God-like, golden, but terrifying as I survive another night in the labyrinth of the mind.

I burned. I burned through the sheets until I was clean and new and strange, and the fire never followed me again after that.

They say ‘time heals,’ but even now I know that’s a lie. What people really mean is that eventually you’ll get used to the pain. You’ll forget who you were without it; you’ll forget what you looked like without your scars.

Glorious morning or mournful evening? Neither the one nor the other, but — inexpressible pain — the vast and desolate field wrapped in fog, of what cannot express itself alone, outside and in time.

the streets are littered with our inheritance we carry more bullets in our genealogy than names.

a rem(a)inder of light slants across fields a bleached photograph of what was: consider: memory, an alibi for end, nostalgic dusk air aching for yesterday boys’ dancing fingers bleed dust and straw, breathe in hometown

They say each of our bodies is a temple and we must treat it well but there are too many men forcing us to believe in them as gods, telling us how to say our prayers, trying to fill every room within it until there is no more sanctuary left for ourselves.