she looks like a lit match,

all orange-haired and red-faced

and white-hot in your hands

but every moment lost to contemplation

is another centimeter closer to getting burned

she almost fools you into forever,

her warmth persuading promises from your lips

before your consciousness can catch up

and by the time it does, all that remains is

scarred flesh and a curl of black smoke

and ashes like an apology for the love that could’ve been

if she had not been born a flame,

a fleeting thing

I never knew my grandfather very well. He was a reserved man: brilliant and subtle. He had a crooked smile and he only spoke when he had something funny or insightful to say. As a result, I never knew him well and quite honestly, I never wanted to. There was no reason for that feeling, but he seemed like the kind of person who would be difficult to get to know. Eventually, I got to know him after he died. I read his book of poetry and I realized he was human. There's a running joke that the men on my father's side can't communicate well. That begun with my grandfather. But in these lines of free verse, his emotions braided themselves into each word, stringing letters together in an equally intentional and haphazard way. He communicated to me from beyond the grave in a manner only poetry could. Stories are fine - good even - but sometimes it's difficult to explain yourself in the detail stories require. Poetry and song share a common principle: their meanings are not definite or finite. You can manipulate people's words to make them your truth and that is the root of my love for poems. I see my granfathers words, and suddenly I am there with him, doing a puzzle and not saying much, but feeling his feelings.

Where I sleep at night is not my room, but the room of dozens of renters that came before my family and I. Romances, sleepless nights, teary pillowcases, a crack in the corner where the hole he punched in was spackled and painted over. If these walls could talk...Well, if they could I wouldn't listen. I don't want to know who came before me and what lies they told each other here. I don't want to know about the bunk beds that only held one child after the first year. I don't want to know about the wine stains on the wood beneath the carpet. These things are conditions of human life, despite their inhumanity. But to live my life, I try to avoid these ugly realities until my curiosity takes over. Because in the end I do want to know, against my better judgement.

My bed has a pillow on either end

one for myself

the other for my puppy.

Beneath the bed

there lies another bed

already made, it awaits being rolled out.

Across from both beds

recycled shoebox drawers with art supplies

whose sketches fold neatly in the scarlet accordion organizer.

Put aside from my interests

to the right rests my college career

retired on the shelf.

At the forefront the centerpiece

an article about my adoption from China

spread as though a map on the glass table.

I have been renting a duplex for the past 10 months. The bedroom is where I spend most of my time and all it contains is a bed, a desk, and a chair. A calendar hangs on the wall with scotch tape because the walls are too hard to drill or nail anything into. Knowing that this place was going to be temporary, I didn't bother much with decorating. I've gotten used to the lack of color in the room. This room has been the first place I've been living since moving back to my hometown. With that, it contains many of my secrets, such as my sadness from leaving a great city behind to come here. It contains my fear as I hear distant gunshots out my window frequently. It holds my anxiety of the unknown future. I've shed those emotions and secrets in this space and I like to think it holds them close in reverance behind its four walls.

I've had many moments laying on the bed, studying the details of the room. On the ceiling, I found little planet and star stickers painted over by the dull alabaster that surrounds me. They blend in so well with the grooves of the ceiling that I almost missed them. Maybe this was a child's room at one point? I remember having the same glow-in-the-dark stickers as a kid and staring at them from my bed. I would pretend I was traveling through space, an escape from the chaos at home. Above the door, there is the dust outline of a cross that once hung there. The nail and hook remain, but the cross was taken down. Maybe an older person lived in the room prior to the child, a grandparent followed by the grandchild. Maybe they were the same person and these are markings of their aging left behind.

I wonder what marking I'll be leaving behind. No matter how well I scrub and clean to get my damage deposit back, I'm sure I'll be leaving some trace of myself here. Will it be a tiny fleck of nail polish that flew onto the wall that I didn't notice? Will it be some of my cat's fur in the corner near his favorite sun spots? Maybe it could be the love and hope that I have learned to feel while residing within this space. During my time here, I came to the decision that I would try to thrive being back in my hometown. That would mean having to let go of some fears and work on pushing myself forward. Now, instead of looking at this place with despondency, I see it as a launching pad to greater things. I wonder what the other people will be like who will pass through this very room. Surely, there will be struggles and there will be happiness. There may be breakups or families being made. There may be excitement or fear. Whatever the case, I hope that it is filled with love, the same love I felt while living here.

Lost and confused,

Her words…

Don’t clarify her actions,

Not sure what I did wrong,

Still I’m to blame for all that’s happened.

“Sleep on the couch”,

“You make me sick”,

“I don’t feel good”,

“Why do you stink?”,

What do you need?

“Stop making me think”,

“Stop being annoying”,

“I need you to leave”,

I ask what’s wrong,

All I’m told...

“It’s not you, it’s me”,

So I leave,

But then I think...

What’s the harm in talking?

“Please stop calling”,

“I feel like I can’t breath”,

So I wait…

And wait...

Until I feel there’s space for me,

Then I act,

“Your acting crazy, don’t you see?”,

So I just let it be,

And just like that,

She messaged me,

“Did you eat?”,

I had...

Still I said no,

Got ready to go,

If she made room,

I can too,

Turns out...

That was not the thing to do.

“You need to eat”,

“Take care of yourself”,

“I shouldn’t have to tell you this ”,

“You should care about your health “,

I replied,

I did,

I do,

You don’t,

I ate,

“You lied?!”,

Ahhhhhh!

Nevermind,

I can’t give up,

So I say good night,

“Can you cut your hair?”,

“I think I hate it”,

“You hate it right?”

I’m so confused,

Yet can’t forget,

To just be patient...

I’m not the one who’s pregnant.

Dialogue is art

To birth emotion we must

Have space to speak words

Never silence

Ode to a story.

Whether it's yours or mine.

Whether it's a piece of your life.

Or something made up in your mind.

Ode to a story.

that you read up late in your bed.

where you go to far way places

in the depths of your head.

Ode to a story.

that you can't put down.

that you hurry to the ending.

In hopes it turns around.

Ode to a story

that is a fight against all odds.

that tells of a journey

that ends in tears and applause.

Ode to a story,

that helps you to grow.

that opens, uncovers

the pieces you needed to know.

Ode to a story.

that fills up your heart

with love and of hope

to find your own sweetheart.

Ode to a story.

of mystery and crime.

where the day is saved,

just in the knick of time.

Ode to a story.

of knights brave and true,

of kingdoms, and swords,

and dragons that flew.

Ode to a story.

read just before bed,

with tucked in little children,

and kisses on heads.

Ode to a story,

that sing a song,

that get stuck in your head,

all day long.

Ode to a story

and to poetry too.

because poems are stories

and I just proved it to you.