the utmost kindness

His jaw slacks ever so slightly

as his laugh echoes around the chambers of my heart,

the ripples cascading down my veins,

Soaking up the oxygen in my blood until I am light and weak again.


Do I love you yet?

I can’t help the way the stars reflect so clearly within my eyes now,

and I wonder how he became the cure to the ailment that plagues being human.


I want to hide in between the hollow ridges of his rib cage

easing his breath,

matching it with mine as I slowly grow to be with him,

welding my soul onto his:



He brought me flowers,

their petals wet from morning dew and the deep smell of pasture.

And he’s beginning to try so hard

and I watch as the stress begins to pull lines across his face.


Do you love me yet?

You can’t help the way that valleys form themselves across your cheeks,

and you wonder if you had ever really laughed in your entire life.


You told me three days prior

that you wish you could live in my head,

sorting away the thoughts that haunt me hours before I can rest.


And I told you

that I have never known such kindness.



tires keep rolling,

creaky and slow like an elder.

quick stops—not quick enough to save anyone

just quick enough to try.

a parking lot of “trying our best.”

a sea of metal; blue black red

yellow? never yellow.

yellow isn’t cool, it’s happy and bright

but gold, oh gold,

gold is everything.

gold in the children’s teeth,

the grimiest of them

glimmering in the grey sky,

in the rainy sky,

dripping, hot, metallic.

it burns their skin

melting down to bone,

singing lonely hearts

that fills themselves with

yellow snap pics

pics of dicks

pics of chicks

picks to be saved for the apocalypse

they smile behind the

yellow barn in our

yellow flower state

to find their yellow car in

heaven. so let their

tires keep rolling.

in the beginning, there was no god.

in the soundless chambers of time and space

it was born.

small and insignificant;

its face blotchy and fat with flesh—

a sputtering mess  on its own—

eyes glowing bright,

the stars illuminated in response to it,

their dust reflective and vain compared to its eyes.


Their tongue was made of moonshine

and dry with stardust.

They were in but the child of

oblivion, unknown and renowned,



it babbles softly in the fibers of space and time,

the universe crying mercilessly for answer.

Yet the child will only coo,

its heavenly body occupied with more timely affairs.