somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

WELCOME TO SHRAPNEL CITY, SPITTING ***** OUT LIKE BULLETS, OR PEOPLE, OR GRAINS OF SAND, OR PLANETARY SYSTEMS. I SAY “I THINK THERE'S SOMETHING ****** UP IN MY HEAD” LIKE SOME PEOPLE SAY “IT'S RAINING OUTSIDE” AND MAYBE THAT'S REALLY ****** UP BUT I CAN'T WAIT FOR SOMEONE TO ROMANTICIZE ME WHAT IF THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME BUT THAT'S OKAY, IT'S NOT VIOLENT OR NASTY OR ******, SO THAT MEANS IT'S HEALTHY, RIGHT? THAT MEANS WE'RE HEALTHY, RIGHT? EVERYONE HAS BAD DAYS, SWEETHEART I WANT TO DRAW EYES ON MY WHOLE BODY, COVER MYSELF IN SOMETHING GOOD, PEEL OFF MY SKIN AND MAKE IT INTO A SONG THAT OTHER PEOPLE CAN BLEED / CRY / SMOKE TO (THIS IS MY DREAM, I SAY, AND I THINK YOU MIGHT BELIEVE ME). I HAVE A DEATHLY FEAR OF CHOKING BUT I LIKE IT WHEN MY CATS SCRATCH ME BECAUSE IT GIVES ME AN EXCUSE TO BLEED THAT I DON'T USUALLY HAVE, AND ISN'T THAT JUST SO WEIRD? ISN'T THAT SO CUTE? DON'T LOOK AT MY LEGS, OR MY FINGERS, OR MY SCALP, DON'T ASK IF I'VE BEEN GETTING ENOUGH SLEEP. IGNORE THAT I EXIST (I DON'T). IT'S OKAY, I WON'T MIND. I WEAR SWEATERS ALL THE TIME SO NO ONE CAN SEE MY CHEST AND I SAY IT'S A GENDER THING BUT ACTUALLY IT'S MORE LIKE AN I-HAVE-SCRATCH-MARKS-AND-SCARS-ALL-OVER-MY-CHEST-AND-I-THINK-I'M-­BECOMING-LESS-OF-A-REAL-PERSON THING. IS THAT MESSED UP? IS THAT WEIRD? IS THAT CUTE? I'LL PUT IT ON A T-SHIRT, MAYBE. IT'S NOT SELF HARM, I JUST DON'T LIKE HAVING BUMPS ON MY BODY. DOES THAT MAKE IT BETTER? DO YOU FEEL LIKE A HERO YET? I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I REALLY AM