a bloodstained sort of love

his tears dripped into jasmine tea, while
the stench of hopelessness permeated
his mind
and the rainy breeze blew gently through the window

and the voices in his head whispered that
real men never cry
but he couldn’t stop
because all he’d ever wanted was bleeding to death
under the table
and he could hear the sirens coming for him.


make me a mix tape

i. she eats the blues like her friends eat smores, savoring every little bit.


ii. she was raised on songs, on old classics and vinyl and tapes, on the belief that music is pure emotion carried by instruments and words through a crackling old tape player.


iii. her daddy showed her riffs on the guitar when she was still a little girl, and her mama started planning out the music for her wedding before she could even talk; she didn’t mind, though. sometimes she thought her mama knew more about music than johnny cash, bob dylan, louis armstrong, and jimi hendrix all smooshed together.


iv. when she finally did meet someone, there was no doubt in her mind that he was the one her mama would get to play that wedding music for. everyday when she drove to work she’d turn the volume up, high as it would go, on her car’s old tape player. and she’d smile.


she always knew she’d marry the man who made her a perfect mix tape.

you’re a fake, darling

there was makeup and tears on your
cellphone that night, when your heart
into a million pieces
[if you’ll forgive the cliche]

i’d like to say i
tried to be sympathetic, but
you know
i’m a lousy liar
and i’m inclined to think you were just bitter that
he saw through you.

so take my advice, little girl
stain your cigarettes with
lipstick and smear your life with all
the pain
you’ve had the pleasure of inflicting

and oh,
don’t bother hopefully blowing your
eyelashes away.
wishes don’t come true for people like you.