still not a love poem

some nights it feels like
it’s just me and the moon
even though I know for a fact
that I’m surrounded by love
if I can just let it in.

when it’s not the love you want
it can feel like a blow instead.
or like someone is speaking
in a language you tried to learn,
and it’s you fumbling the connection.

but I refuse to believe that
you can’t love anyone else
until you love yourself,
or that you only accept the love
you think you deserve.
these days I’m on speaking terms with myself,
which is a lot better than it uaed to be.
but I’ve loved so deeply, indiscriminately,
and I’ve accepted that others love me
even if I think they’re wrong.

a cup of tea

some days it’s all I can do
to keep upright.
even when good news and momentum
assist in the process,
it’s a struggle
to keep going and going and going…
but then I’m not tired.
it’s beyond tired,
a soul-exhaustion that lingers
and underscores the anxiety that rules my life.
so I turn
to a cup of Sleepytime tea.
half the time I’m asleep
before I even drink it.
but it’s comforting to have,
a security blanket in mug,
a familiar bookend to the day.
and then I can rest.

throwing the bones

they ask if I can read
their palms or see
the colors of their auras
or anything other than
read their cards.
they’re always a little disappointed
when I say that’s all I do.

I understand, you know.
it’s not like I pretend
to be a conduit to the mystical.
I’ll be the first to tell you
that tarot is nothing
but ink on paper,
old pictures of white,
cishet people and a bad
Catholic hangover.

but what I don’t tell anyone
unless they already know it
is the zing of a reading
performed with startling accuracy,
the way you find yourself
in the right place so often
you are skeptical of being skeptical,
the way numbers
follow you in hindsight,
without the comforting blanket
of confirmation bias
to soften the weirdness.

nobody believes in witches
until they think one
might hex them
or help them tell their story.

poetry for snow days

my poetry is not
the kind you hear
at a slam.
it’s not impassioned and
rhythmic and in your face.

sometimes I envy those poets
and their careful cadences,
their performances and their power.

but this is poetry
meant to be
consumed quietly
by your eyes,
maybe printed out
and carried in your pocket,
pulled out when you
need a reminder.

there’s room enough
for all of it.