grief has always kept a neat house, which is to say

sometimes feelings are so large that there

isn’t space for anything else.

sometimes you need to rethink the decorative wall art

or the wooden coffee tables because as soon as grief

walks into the room it’ll all shatter into

nothing.

the last time i shattered into

nothing

the backseat of my car became a room and i became a

locked door, a disembodied hand jiggling the knob

as if to turn it into an answer.

grief sleeps in its bathtub and calls it baptism.

grief watches the drain tug cold water into its depths

and daydreams about shattering into

nothing

so i remind her that shattering into

nothing

is just another way to make a maze out of your body.

i say have you seen the shining? it’s kinda like that.

and she says

nothing,

either because she doesn’t understand the reference

or she doesn’t want to think about its implications.

grief keeps every letter she’s ever received under the

sink. there’s one, crumpled and nearly forgotten, at

the bottom, from the person i was at 19.

a brief, unanswered note in a plain envelope

asking if grief has any available beds for a visitor.

WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT VINCENT VAN GOGH

Not the passion that overtook him

or the words that flew from his hands like birds.

Not the final letter he drafted to his brother, writing

“I still love art and life very much,” before going out

to paint. Not the obstacles that prevented creation

at the level he desired. Not what could’ve been.

Not the reality. Not the love he had for small

pleasures and graceful things. Not that his most

iconic work was made in recovery. Not the full

picture, nowhere near the full picture. An edited

approximation.

ODE FOR THE GIRLS THAT CAMP OUT FOR CONCERTS

this is for the dirt-stained beauty queen street sleepers

made of resilience and dollar store glitter. the girls

that can turn a half-empty bag of makeup wipes into a

full body shower. the girls that keep buying the

cheapest item on the local fast food menu so they can

use their bathroom. the girls that pray to dry shampoo

and deodorant, spray it generously over anyone that

needs it. the girls that make friends with security &

tell them about their parents, how they don’t know

that they’re here, curled up on a sidewalk. how they

think they’re at a sleepover with a friend from high

school that isn’t actually their friend anymore,

watching movies, gossiping about nothing. the girls

applying eyeshadow in the reflections of storefront

windows, unfazed by every person that walks past and

dares to roll their eyes. there is something holy about

girls so dedicated to melody that they give up their

basic needs for it. live off of bottled water and bulk-