I have the same dream every night: I am on a beach. My eyes are closed and my hands – stretched open. I am bathing in the sunlight and marveling at the easiness of the moment. Then, my eyes open.

I see the shore, which looks boundless, and a wild jungle positioned miles behind me. I realize something with a pang. I am on an island alone. My only company are the tides which stream in and out in a rhythm I can’t quite capture.

Just as I overcome the intensity of one tide, another washes me over: I am left perpetually drowning.



“Awaken,” I whisper to something inside of me, hoping to stir something; anything.

I feel hollow and dreary like a metal pipe placed in an assembly of plumbage.


“Spring forward, spring back.”

They tell you.

They don’t give you an outline: They don’t tell you why.

“Spring forward, spring back.”

They command you.

The nature of it is p e r p l e x i n g;

bristling and jostling with kinetic energy.

Dark and invigorated.

“Spring forward; spring back.”

They threaten, without highlighting the good,

the bad.

My Icarus

I want to warn him before it happens;

I see the melt – the melt he created.

What use are words of reapproach?

He is falling and falling: All I can do is watch.

His body is positioned in curves of terror and instability.

He is in complete entropy.

I absurdly yearn to ask him,

“Why did you not listen?”

My Icarus. My Icarus.  

My hands instinctively seek to reach him,

but I hold back:

I want to teach him one last lesson,

a lesson about what it means to be a man.

My Heart

I want someone to know my heart as well I know it. The fevers that wreak havoc upon it; the abyss that seems to expand as my lived experiences do. I don’t know if it’s interesting or worthwhile, but something tells me I’d be better off.

But, this thought is utterly meaningless because living in want — what good is that?


There is a sheen that works its way,

out of the edges of my mind;

it metastasizes to my physicality.

Untouchable, indestructible; undetectable.

I daringly gaze into the eyes of otherwise faceless people.

I implore them–anyone– to visualize the framework of my audacious, unsteady mind;

the truths that I hide,

the venom that spills occasionally from sharp, red-stained lips.

Instead: they see a slippery and shiny sheen of a form that used to be.