One day I’ll meet the

Boy of my dreams

We’ll run around

We’ll play tag

We won’t care what

Anyone thinks when

We hold hands outside


Not all dreams are what

They’re played out to be.


We’ll meet each other’s parents.

Have fun at gatherings.

I’m behind the camera

for every picture.

I’m so good at it,

That I won’t mind

If I don’t get a word in

Before you ask if it’s cool.


How could you love me

And be ashamed of me.

How could I love you

And be afraid of what I see

When I’m behind the camera


You finally smiling back

In front of everyone else


I feel vulnerable.


You don’t actually like me anymore

You just don’t have a “reason “ to leave.


It’s not your fault.

You only know

How to make an exit       I don't have to tell anyone

You can tell stories about.                               That I  chose to love my self


I don’t blame you at all

So you can stop apologizing

Because you have this thing

Where you keep going into detail

About all the ways you feel bad.


Now it’s unfair that

I’ve moved on.


This won’t stop

Until I feel as emotionally invested as you are

In something you didn’t give a fuck about

In the first place.



From beneath
knees exhale
manipulated, monotonously
amused at the curl
of your smile
steeping each vowel
stripping every fiber, draining
what was.
My name framed in
this fog of your
facade, leaving your monologue
empty ring of condensation—for there is no
denying the quake and
sweat of a nervous
it’s hot outside.


gently settle
in the pillows
of these tactile
time scripts place
Your most
indecisive shatter
of your heart, the
stubborn tear that
refuses his title, the
drunken weave of
desire decision seduction passion guilt
holding hands behind
backs of your lovers'
secret etched intention
scribbpled over the
wrinkled valleys
of my palm,
waiting, where
your ignored
white sheet skeletons
fingers clasp mine,
may your mind finally find

I will forever question
the bitch staring
back, refusing to call her a
Reflection, refusing to
believe-to accept the
weight of
the envelope entitled
to my actions
flirting with Lucifer
Looking into the
eyes of my childhood,
scolding, you
know exactly,
how much this weighs. 


Steven Jones