and all of the names were false

I’m in a manic state of restlessness, shifting mindlessly from page to page without any sense of friction, a senseless fucking of my psyche. There really is no purpose for why I refuse to sleep, when I have all of the motivation to do so, and all of the reason to obtain the appropriate amount of rest. There is no deadline I need to meet, at least presently. There is no specific problem in my mind. No, I am not spilling my heart out. I’m not writing an entry in anything, or an exit, for that matter. You’ll think this is an error message, but it’s the only truth I’ll ever tell you: This message has no content. Are you sure you want to send it anyway?

Don’t color your past in bitter hues. Bitterness is the thinnest of emotions. Subsequently, it tends to bleed into all the parts of your life, but when it’s held up to the light, it holds the least amount of pigment. Remember that.

The last thing I want to give is my love.

And I approach sleep the opposite way I approach the club—

—I’m always the last one to enter and the first one to leave,

Drifting in and out of consciousness as if rolling up a sleeve—

—Sleep’s another small society telling me what my life should mean.

So I push it out of my path,

And then construct my own dream.


Sometimes I wonder where my head is.

“Okay, where the fuck is my cellphone. I can’t leave this building without my fucking cellphone.”

I can feel its watermelon-weight on my neck, usually, but lately it’s been pulsing in and out of gravity. Slowly strobing.

“Julie, it’s not in my fucking pocket. Bandage skirts don’t have fucking pockets.”

I wish it were tucked in my bra, close to my heart. I wish it were that easy to find.

“Check your clutch,” I said.

“Julie, it’s not in my fucking clutch. My fucking iPhone’s bigger than my fucking clutch.”

I wish heads had a more definitive shape. Something as distinguishable as a protruding rectangle creased behind a thin Sparkle & Fade tank.

“Check your shoe,” I said.

“Fuck you, smartass.” Zinnia spat, rolling her eyes and swerving her head. She locked her eyes on the sky, feigning a sudden interest in the clouds.

I turned around, waved, and pretended to walk towards someone I knew.

“Oh, HI!” I deftly droned.

I felt the heat of Zinnia’s eyes on my back, as I took one, two, two, three steps…


I twisted towards the scene of the crime.

Zinna’s cellphone on the ground.

Zinnia frantically pretending to fix her shoe.

Me frantically pretending that I didn’t already write the script.

My life is a veiled poem.

My love is a poem veiled.

And your eyes will liquify the lines of the tides I’ll never sail.

blind date

Someday you’ll understand.

Every leaf of inhibition mirrors the veins of your hand—

You compulsively tear strands of grass from the ground;

Since you were a child, you loved its lack of sound.


All I ever wanted was clean breaks and milkshakes.

But instead you told the waiter, “We’ll just have some water, thanks.”

And then over linguini, you told me how you felt;

You killed all my dreams with assassin-like stealth.


When tears come in streams, water tastes like moonbeams.

But water can’t feed all my fabricated dreams—

I need chemical strawberries frozen thick in my veins;

I need your ibuprofen stare to kill all of my pains.


High fructose corn syrup coats my soul, love,

It trickles my insides forming sugar stalactites.

I lie to myself while doing makeup in the mirror;

I’m lying to you now between bites of white rice.



“She’s in a war of consciousness,” he said aloud.

He pointed the camera to the pile of limbs.

The image screamed “moderate hit with a sequel.”

The love-limbs grinned and turned to her side.

“If I hide my surprise, will you tell me how it ends?”

So he mouthed her last words from his lips to hers.


I screamed all of the mountains blue;
I hoped to do the same to you,
but you’re far too far to reach, my love,
you’re far too far to reach.

I shelved my conscious mind for you,
to plant my starving heart anew;
but your mind is in the sea, my love,
your mind is in the sea.

But as you move to touch the door,
breathing its seductive form;
remember what you’re looking for.
remember what you’re looking for.

My eyes, while brown, are like the shore;
when salt-tides change, they change their form,
drowning in an ocean hue;
but only under the gaze of you.

And the body of water that is my body
brews dark and green and deep, and grew
as I watched you fall asleep,
counting the layers of dreams in you.

So as your worn soles grace the floor,
remember what you’re looking for.
remember what you’re looking for.

you’ll find it when it’s gone.

tri bar

love is the shadow of things left undone

the negative space, a mass of stars minus sun.

I do not love you, but the way the light bends
to form your sloping features
like beaming bookends.

I do not love you, but your reaction to the rain
how it clings to your skin
an involuntary pane.

I do not love you, but what surrounds you when you laugh
the blooms on campus hills
potential Facebook photographs.

I do not love you
I don’t love anything, really
I eat Camus for breakfast, inhale
Palahniuk readings.

never trust a paper plane
to untangle fully a vine-climbed brain;
never trust your pen, my love,
to scrape away the existential dust.

sing to the birds before they even morning-think,
scream at the sirens with no real reason-link,
you’re never quite yourself, even when you drink
you can only feel love in the darkness of a blink.
love letter to a city unknown

New York City fucking scares me, but it makes me feel alive.

I don’t know much of anything. I often feel as if I’m regressing, fading into an oblivion negative enough to depolarize my every atom. I don’t know why. I don’t.

Yet whenever I’m in the City, I feel a physical shift. Something palpable. Something real. There is consequence to every step. Dreams are at an arm’s reach. So are the demons. So are you. But at least you can finally see them.

I have never before felt so insignificant. So absolutely present. So powerful. The suburbs shower you with the moldy grandeur of significance since birth, an empty baptism. You are special. Sing the gospel. Write your goals in the blanks provided.

Significance is a separation. Postulation, not protein.

To be insignificant is to be a part of something. Whatever it is, you’re in.


The City and the person take turns playing canvas.

And everyone, every one, separate from path or sphere or goal or flesh, is always in motion. The spirit of the City is that we try. We all try.

We recognize the power of the City and ourselves. And we underestimate neither.

I’ve been trying to find a way to keep that feeling, for me to invoke it at will, so that I may go about my days with a sense of power.

I’ve tried snapping twice at inspiration, hoping to thread the senses.

Maybe there are no threads. Maybe they’re everywhere.

Maybe that’s the same. Maybe that’s beautiful.

insomnia ii.

sunlight through plastic blinds
is God’s unblinking eye
dust falls on cratered lids
half-tempting a half-sleep

i found oblivion
in every negative space
and the apocalypse
is a sun-flooded classroom

sunglasses on and I feel nothing
an insomniac’s trick
dark swallows heart
in the seams of a blink

solar//lunar//mental eclipse
lettering’s the only difference
print is poison, print is poison
hope lies in dissolving contrast

solar//lunar//mental eclipse
lettering’s the only difference
you blink, you lose
don’t blink, lose you

they’re called mind games

because your mind will always


when your instincts are the definition

of both morality and