is reality
such is our

denial of
this illumination is
tantamount to
living in a crevice
between verity and



i wanna live


"I will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers. I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air, alive, with closed eyes."

- E.E. Cummings (via floriental)

(Source: bluemoonsandjunes, via fairycastle)

there is a benevolent ghost in this house

that comes out to chase mice with the cats

and makes them run in circles and 

wrap themselves around one another.

there is a benevolent ghost in this house

that goes silently into my room

adjusts the thermostat

rights the wayward picture frame

and cracks the door open

just a little

there is a benevolent ghost in this house

that watches over the youngest daughter as she sleeps

absorbed in the specific manner

in which her candy-coloured hair

refracts the glow of her 

computer monitor

there is a benevolent ghost in this house

who makes the kettle sing off-key

and would gladly turn it off for m

except for the knowledge that i enjoy that part


there is a benevolent ghost in this house

that i had confused for the longest while

as being reverberations of my fond memories here

but in the absence of those who’s voices echoed

from the dark box of the basement to the

rafters of the attic room

it lingers here

so it must be something other.

there is a benevolent ghost in this house

who, i am certain

we will welcome to the table on christmas

to sit with us like a brother

or a cousin

or a dear friend

and although it may not speak much 

it will laugh unbeknownst 

and listen

and remember the stories.

there is a benevolent ghost in this house

and therefore, i am glad to say

that i always have a spot of company.

there exists

much breadth
in this great expanse
to be pretty and strange

for bruise boy and the ladies man

if my parents had moved us to the fringes of the city

would i have been able to grow up with the two of you?

what adventures would be have had?

would i have started smoking earlier?

would i have work plaid shirts and doc marten boots and

headbanged at your metal hsows?

would you have picked up that paintbrush in high school art class

and painted that bruised boy

that ended up revealing your hidden 

secret gift?

would i have stayed away from drawing 


would i have ever met the one

who i now concider my best friend?

would you ever have met that girl you love, who created 

sculptures out of bones?

would i have ever 

starved myself into oblivion

would i have cared

that my mother is a cold piece of metal?

how may books would i have given you?

would i have become friends

with people i’ll never meet now?

would i have been lonelier?

would you be living in your mad house of dangerous boys?

would i have fallen in love with someone different?

would i ever have heard Karen O

and become covered with tiny red glitter stars?

would i have ever taken ketamine

with the girl who you don’t see anymore?

would we still meet under lights in the back of Bistro

to smoke cigarettes and talk about our family histories?

would you ever

have thought to let me sleep on your floor

(although it was littered with broken glass that i picked out of my hair all of the following day)

would you have shared your poems with me?

would I have made you braver?

or more afraid?

would i feel so disproportionate


i would have loved to be more necessary

more of a fixture

i still do

i want to

i miss the memories

of things i could have done

with the two of you.

i want to tattoo

your face(s) onto 

the inside of my ribcage sometimes.

(you are that dear to me)

don’t you know

that we are all (in) love?

your deepest wantings

are premonitions

we have


ode to tea

camomille flowers and rose petals

mint-green leaves and cacao nibs

jasmine flowering

opening in a slow fragrant


one to wake up, one to sleep

one to heal hearts

one to pull sadness

from the marrow

one to imbrue and

another to release

this is the company i steep

thought on thoughts

i think that as we get older

our emotions become more complex and so

it’s like taking a photograph of a photograph of a photograph

unto infinity

so really, our sadness now

is a composite of

a million little universes of sadness


i forget how beautiful

life can be sometimes

then I remember

Stop trying

to understand your fears because


were never supposed to make sense

and then

every old wound was torn open