Your body was wonderful.
I could cup your hipbones in my hand
and sip wine from your collar bones.
thin
slim
and beautiful
You cold never understand why I was jealous.
Until you saw my body through my eyes
rippling thighs
and curved stomach

~j.c.s

sea’s quiet tonight, iris and vagabond gray
salt coarse in our hair we can see it in the
last pink light

count the bubbles in the wake
sprouting from thin air and
imaginary whale songs

they won’t find us in the stern let me
look at your hipbones—I won’t touch
not yet it’s too quiet tonight

there’s orion, and there’s cassiopeia
stars swimming white fish in our
***-eyes

gulls’ heads tucked under wings
in the corners—goodnight goodnight
little gulls, dreaming you’re doves

even sirens sleep this moon
soft voices slumberous
smoky, hey—let me look at you again

under the velvet dark, sea in sterling drops
on our lashes, let’s take a break from steering
let waves and mermaids take the wheel

Note to stranger:

Don't let her long eyelashes fool you
Stemming off from eyelids filled with promise
Pupils composed of green and brown paint
Mixed and made permanent by the look on her face when you ask her what love means to her

Because to her
Love is an antique promise
Tic Tac Toed into her shoulder blades
Another lost game

Lonely is made apparent by the reveal of her hipbones
Sticking out from the belt loops on the waistband of her dreams
Her clothes become looser

She is welcomed by friends to parties that she refuses to go to
Because even in a room of people
The only emotion she is capable of feeling
REALLY feeling
Is lonely

And you may argue that lonely is not an emotion
But a state of being
But when she truly feels it
Lonely becomes both

Discolored tulips growing for a flowerpot of unfertilized dirt
Masked by a smile that could fool anyone
Even her own father
Sometimes even herself

Mascara stained floor tile
Quick change scenes
Equivalent to her multiple personalities
Sad happy sad happy
Sad...

She is capable of being both sad and happy
She is introverted AND extroverted
She is 5 million different people
Sometimes wishing she could narrow herself down to just one
She is ME

Your fingertips wandered
The forests of my skin,
for a year, three months and one week.

Your kisses lingered around my neck,
Pearls strung delicately across a haphazard creation.
Your thumbprints were inked across my ribcage,
Polka dots on my least favorite sweater.
Your fingers mined gems from the ridges of my hipbones,
Diamonds found within the depths of my self-loathing.
Your lips planted daisies the crooks of my collarbones,  
Black-holes of misery turned into a rainbow of gardens.

I have not felt your embrace
Or heard your voice,
In a year, eleven months, a week and four days.

The pearls have been replaced
With the noose of your bitterness.
Your thumbprints have become plum-colored bruises,
Diamonds have turned to coal,
And, like a fool,
I mistook daisies for venus fly traps-
They catch every thought of you,
And I'm now I'm closed in.

Rather than placing those
through the webs of my fingers
place them through my bare ribs
use my hipbones for leverage
this could be worthwhile
or turn me into
another common cold
but I can’t help but think
no one wants to see me naked

then I remember how you have
but not truly
bits and pieces
never the whole
and how your teeth left a permanent mark
on my chest
scratch and claw into my back
and remind me
that you still want me
be hungry
I cannot be

i remember when someone kissed my hipbones last:
it was years ago, in the dark.
you don't know now how long it's lasted,
like a disease eating away at the bone
where the sweet warmth of kisses should be.
i miss the way you pulled me to your core,
yet your hands were hooks,
puncturing me
"catching me"
like stealing a fish from the place where it is free,
only to cut its head off,
scale it,
filet it,
until it's easy to eat.
i'm in a bed like a net that has protected me
from falling into a canyon of fear,
drowning in its tumultuous rivers
which beat me against rocks.
when i can sleep again
maybe i'll find someone else to join me,
someone who will let go when their kisses are dry.

I’ve begun “The Wasting” once more.

That ragged uncovering of bones and peaks and ridges that crop up along my spine and shoulders.

My scapulas revealing themselves like the bed of a lake as the waters recede.

Indents beside and under my kneecaps, hollows that match the ones slowly sinking themselves back into my cheeks.

And the hipbones…the things I truly crave to see through the paper thin layer of my skin…

Those…I’d starve myself to waifish proportions just to graze my hands along the mountaintops of those things, those sharp little things.

I lose my hair and my colour and my shine just to dig my fingers into the hardness of my breastbone, just to know that my jawbone is an overhang, just to plunge headfirst into the thrill of being thin.

“The Wasting” and I are friends, and I want to drown in her.

I’m a bit lonely.
I want to trace your hipbones and the dips in your spine
and the shape of your lips and eyes and brows
and count the flecks of amber in your irises.
I want to tangle into an awkward mess of limbs
before settling into a perfectly positioned jumble
and simply breathe and be with you as you are.
I want to knit a hand in your hair while the other thumbs your collarbone
and press my cold toes into your calves until they warm up,
while hiding under the blankets like kids in a fort.
(they always say we grow up too fast;
maybe that’s why we always long for our childhoods in the end
and cling to each other in the dark
when no one else is around to quiet
the panic that a night terror brings.)
But you’re nowhere near and I’m right here,
flying solo in a bed that’s far too big,
and I’m a bit lonely.

and in the luminescence of the morning
the sun’s rays traversed across my fragile frame
revealing the sparse white lines dwindling away
plastered over my thighs, hipbones and my wrists
however I now have the consent to accept such disfigurements,
each holding a distinctive tale of how it came about.
i untangled myself from the white linen
and in the most undiluted form of myself,
i finally had the consciousness
i was no longer timorous of life itself,
it is truly time to experience vitality
-r.s

I’ve discovered a world in your eyes. Brilliant blue surround black. I’ve discovered fear there. Trust, too. Lust, love, and secrets. All hiding hiding hiding, resisting discovery.
I’ve mapped exotic lands on the planes of your arms. We’ll escape there if the parents start shouting, if the people start pointing. If the doubt weighs heavy. We’ll run there when the “ifs” become truth.
In the dark I carved a labyrinth into your skin. Later, when it’s just you and me, we’ll roam there. We’ll love ourselves in the walls built high. You and I will live there. Talk there. Discover there.
I built a small black box to put our fear in. To hide our pasts in. To fill with our doubt. To free our minds, so we can explore. So we can map continents. Galaxies. Universes.
We’ll map stars, planets, cities and towns. Eyes hipbones, necks, and hands. We’ll explore hometowns, bodies and minds. We’ll build futures, laughter and trust.
Molly we’ll burn bridges, inhibition, and hate
Molly I’ll hold you close while the cities fall. I’ll map your lips with mine. I’ll show you my flaws and fall in love with yours. Molly we’ll find paradise. We’ll lose reality. We’ll find ourselves. Find each other. Build worlds of our own.

"Everyone wants to be a little anorexic" she says

"You know, like, in a glamorous way, like fashion friendly anorexic"

I bite my cheek and nod, pretend to agree

All I can think of is waking up to stars dancing on the ceiling

Pale skin with bruises of unknown origins

And battered feet on and off the scale

Almonds in Ziploc baggies

Bite marks on fingers

Hair down the drain

Measuring crunches by the marks they leave on your spine

And battered feet on and off the scale

Enough water to turn organs into boats

Eating an apple with a fork and knife

Desperate hands grasping for ribs

And battered feet on and off the scale

Standing and the world going dark

Coughing around shots of apple cider vinegar

Carrying an emergency rice cake for weak spells

And battered feet on and off the scale

Enough green tea to drown organs

Sugar free gum to mask the smell of decaying organs

Whatever nail polish covers yellow and purple

And battered feet on and off the scale

How many calories are in toothpaste

Thinspo blogs

Pillows squeezed between thighs

And battered feet on and off the scale

Is today the day my heart gives out

Waking every day in a new body

Fingers clasped around wrists

And battered feet on and off the scale

Notebooks filled with numbers

Purple crescents under eyes

Fingers clasped around forearms

And battered feet on and off the scale

Elbows knocking into hipbones

Being scared of your own reflection

Lies to get out of dinner

And battered feet on and off the scale

The stench of *****

Oxygen that tastes of Splenda

Fingers clasped around biceps

And bleeding feet on and off the scale

 

If this is your idea of glamour

Then you can have it

backseat baby,
press your strawberry lips
to my wolf throat and sing
like the full moon.  
backseat baby,
i’ve got a half eaten heart
bleeding out, staining my
wooden hands as they draw
hearts around your ******
mouth.
backseat baby,
they say lovin’ makes
you weak, makes you a
monster, makes you
a freak.  

and baby, im all three.

backseat baby,
you’ve got your holy claws
in holy places.  making ‘amen’
taste like blood on the lips.
backseat baby,
i’m sin in the skin and my
black soul is starved for
your candle lit collarbone.
backseat baby,
they’re watchin’ us through
the window, watchin’ you-
watchin’ me.

and baby, we’re a freak show.

backseat baby,
your knees are porcelain stars
against black leather.

backseat baby,
we’re poisoned tongues
fighting, knives and guns,
wrists against hipbones.

and baby, what a sweet,
glorious and thrilling
death.

It is 7.30 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together like days of the week, normalcy perspiring in the air behind us.
It is 7.31 and I am still thinking about your cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones. I am still thinking about your bones. You haven't returned my phone calls in a week.
It is 7.32 and I am still thinking about forest fires.
It is 7.33 and I am still thinking about clocks ticking and how it's kind of funny how we are always counting the days we have left, instead of the days we have.
It is 7.34 and I am still thinking about how my apologies never really cut it.
It is 7.35 and I am sorry.
It is 7.36 and I wonder how hard it is to tie a noose.
It is 7.37 and I am still thinking about the normal length of a pause when you're telling someone you love them, too.
It is 7.38 and I love you, too.
It is 7.39 and I am still trying not to think about how loud the doorbell echoes in the entrance hall now.
It is 7.40 and I am still thinking about the absence of stairways.
It is 7.41 and I am still thinking about hunger pains and alleyways and the warmth of your hand on my spine.
It is 7.42 and there are some things you can't say to other people but holy ****, I miss you.
It is 7.43 and I'm sorry again.
It is 7.44 and I am still thinking about short hands on clocks.
It is 7.45 and I am still imagining footfalls landing heavy on the carpet outside my bedroom and trying not to hope they're yours.
It is 7.46 and I hope they're yours.
It is 7.47 and I am still thinking about the glass in my ribcage digging in harder than your fingernails ever could.
It is 7.48 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together.
It is 7.49 and I'm sorry again.

On a cafeteria table,
in the middle of February,
the kind where it gets dark at 5pm,
sat eight minature figurines made of shells—
brown, speckled, like a calico cat
with googly eyes on the middle of their heads,
one business man with a black derby,
one with a pretty pink bow,
or even one with blue suspenders,
and all their chubby bellies
rounding out over their pants. The woman

with her iridescent nails, bony fingers,
the skin pressed thin against her knuckles,
lines them up in a perfect row, tilting
their heads into one another as if
they are having a tiny conversation
admist the numbers being called—
B14! She stamps in red. B14!
A man pushes a cart around the tables,
like one mows grass around graves,
with fifty cent candy bars and potato chips
on flimsy paper plates. He asks the woman
if she wants ice in her Pepsi, but she just blows
a long sigh of smoke and flicks the sparks
behind her back. He doesn’t ask her to pay.

G56! She touches the head of the figurine
with the mustache. G56! I’ve lost count
of how many numbers I’ve missed,
but then there’s you, your hand on my thigh,
creeping, your fingers pushing
my cotton skirt up, up, and up—
O74!
We play with acrylic chips instead of stampers.
We’d like to win the lottery tickets,
maybe cash them in at the gas station
after we drink a couple iced teas and snack
on Mentos cause we ran out of money
two bottles ago.

The figurine with the fishing pole has one pupil
that lies at the bottom of the eye,
lop-sided, and staring at me while I pretend
that I have G47! or pretend that this isn’t
the first time you’ve brought me here, G47!
instead of a real date. Or pretend
that I can’t hear the woman cough, and cough,
and cough as she switches stampers between every ten calls
or touch this figurine or move that one, just slightly,
this way or that or

N44! She doesn’t have it. N44!
I don’t have it.
Don’t worry, child, you’ll have it all someday,
she whispers, sideways from her mouth,
with your thumb making circles around my hipbones,
and the man pushing the cart, the squeak of the wheels
B7! But I don’t have it. B7! I don’t have it.
I don’t have it.

I am just your average sinner,
sly glances say, I am second chance, time around .
I spin mediocre wildest-dreams
in rundown hope hotels
I am just a pretty sinner with a
dusty trail of lust
like green pollen in my wake.
A vehicle of possibility
to all the places we can drive our devils,
with cocktails and vague musician
who lean back on wooden chairs, against walls of fading paint.
with tables for sins
to be laid out like Thanksgiving.
My sins are neon signs in yellowed rooms,
My sins are rusted cans kicked in old beach towns.
My sins are hot pavement under cracked rubber tires rumbling above.
My back arched in a prayer to the sky.
The rise of my hipbones like majestic mountains.
My sins leak from my eyes. First one, then another.
Down, Down they fall
I fall to my knees.
They fall and I curse them for leaving me too.
I fall to my knees like the traveler who has journeyed too long,
On my knees and  I kiss the dirt of home.
I am humbled and groveling...within my sinning.
And I pray a much louder prayer. I am a much humbler servant, with much to forgive.
I wear my sins like a raincoat to keep me dry from all the
good intention and 'well-deserved!' that might be coming my way.
I twist my sin into a paper flower and wear it in my sinful hair next to my sinful eyes by my sinful mind.
I am just your average sinner
Dreaming of living a better life someday.
Praying to be a better me, someday.
Someday is a funny place to live
With towering hopes
and skyscraping desires scratching at its sterile walls.
No, not for me.
I am just your average sinner...
with extraordinary sins.

How could she do that to herself.
her collarbones almost popping out of her skin
because she is a skeleton already
her ribcage a tally of the meals she has skipped
one, two, three, four, too many to count
her hipbones protrude like shards of glass
shattered like her self esteem
thighs that no longer touch
calves miles apart
gaps on her body
gaps between meals

her head is a mixed up land
with broken mirrors all around
her friend ana reflected in the shards
she is so familiar with these eating habits they have a name
ana ana ana ana ana
runs through her brain
the calorie counter in her head runs
is an apple worth it anymore?
skip dinner
wake up thinner
pretty girls do not eat.

her body is brittle
she looks like she could break with a touch
but she is already broken inside
the fight is over
she knows it too
she is fading away.

how could i do this to myself.

My reflection shows in the mirror and
my rib cage protrudes from my skin
my hip bones jut out.
My hands run over my skin before I pull
a shirt over my head and pants up my legs.
You used to purposely freak me out.
You would **** in and skin would almost dissolve under your bottom rib.
You wanted me to stick my hand under your ribs, pressing into the dissolved skin.
That's the only part that freaked me out, pressing under your rib cage.
I didn't care that you could **** in and have your ribs show one by one.
I didn't care that you had me feel the dip in your sternum.
You used to pull your sweatpants down your thighs when you sat down.
There would be a skinny slot that the shorts you wore underneath and your boxers would leave because they hung onto your bulging hipbones.
I was to get over you.
I didn't fall for you until you showed your interest in me.
Finally, I began to like you in a way I never planned.
I was to get over you
that was the plan.
But you still have my head spinning
thinking I was stupid enough to fall again
and
here I am,
writing you a poem,
because hard work to keep myself in shape
even reminds me of you.
I guess I'm able to say life was about living for the night when I was with you
because talking to you alone got my mind off things and allowed me to have fun.

Don't love your food less because you want him to love you more. When he holds your hipbones in his hands, he is not holding your heart.

2. Delicate flowers can't survive on water alone. Don't drop yourself into a skinny vase until you wither. You deserve so much more.

3. Don't confine yourself to the scars on your thighs; you are more than that.

4. If you feel insignificant, sketch stars on your skin. Do not count them. You have created a universe on your body. As you live, planets are born. Stars implode. You are so powerful.

5. When your eyes scan your reflection for flaws, know that you will always find them. This does not make you terrible. The stripes on your hips are there because you are alive and your universe is expanding.

6. When your best friend is admitted to hospital, reassure her. Tell her she is beautiful. When she does not believe you, hold her quietly.

7. When you are admitted to hospital, let Mom cry. When she tells you you're beautiful, try to believe her. Let her hold you quietly.

8. Do not hand onto his words. You mean so much more than "******."

9. Do not count the calories you eat. Count the smiles and the tears and every time the sun lights your face. Do not count the calories you eat.

10. By the time you write this, you will have made a decision. Reading this, I know it seems like the road to hell never ends. But when you get to write this poem, you know that it does.

Because you turn around and walk away.

1/5-8/07

4:40 AM



i couldn't sleep if i tried
my pillow still smells like You
there are no more tears left to cry
i can't stop thinking about You
so i'll bury my head
hold my breath
then chicken out too far from death
do You remember--
-our kisses in the rain?
-our keeping ourselves high?
-Your keeping myself sane?
so now i'm thrown
back into routine
pacing my life without Your rhythm
makes me want to scream

You. are. my. air.

without You i can't breathe.

i won't breathe.
i won't sleep.
but i also won't leave.

i hope that hope i hope You have lingers

(do you have to let it linger?)

i have to have it...



i've written books about You.

about the way my head spins when i catch barely a glance of Yours.
about how Your company just...fit. it felt so right.
everything about You always did.
about how nervous i get when i pull up in Your driveway, i always try to look so cool...
about how my stomach went crazy and i threw up when You ended us...

about how i've always felt so unworthy of You.
in my mind, You've always been this...being
incapeable of fault.
You could do no wrong in my eyes.

and You still can't.



my friends would call me
ask me how my day went
i'd tell them all
'i woke up next to Her, so its the best day of my life'

i've have this process
i'm gonna try and help You understand.
in the past year of my life
i've been battling.
life is one big lesson.
my Adrian's have been fighting each other.

sometimes the dark side took over.

those days were long.


I won myself.



but i lost you...



so now i'm using the experience.

i figure, if it happened, then it happened for a reason.
so what am i to learn from this?

well i've learned that the old saying is true,

you don't know what you have, untill its gone.


and now you're gone, and i'm dead without you.



so i'll pound my head into the wall

try to backtrack my thoughts

try to see

where

i

went

wrong.



but, you see, i can't imagine anything.

without. seeing. your. face.

withough seeing your eyes
your shoulders
your legs
your hipbones
your hands
your lips . . . .




*******.



I lied to You.

and i'll never stop hating myself for it.



i couldn't sleep if i tried
my pillow still smells like You
there are no more tears left to cry
i can't stop thinking about You



and i can't stop loving you.

Paper bones form paper hearts
Cut out with child-sized scissors
And winter days are here to stay
Her heart is covered in blizzards

No one can help her
Because no one knows
Why her heart is beating
Amongst heavy snows

Fragile is as fragile does
And she certainly takes the cake
Metaphorically, of course, because
Literally would be a mistake

Paper hearts form paper dreams
Never to jump off the page
And she can't seem to jump at all
Her body has become a cage

Not losing weight, just losing time
At least that's how it seems
She's smashing mirrors and smashing plates
Thrown in a pile of smashed dreams

Paper dreams form concrete thoughts
Of ending it all one day
In fact, why later, why not now?
She doesn't have a reason to stay

Can't run, can't walk, can't nothing but sleep
Can't scream, can't cry, can't nothing but keep
Empty while her body is begging but she can't eat
To live at all is an enormous feat
Never leaving her alone until she sleeps

Endless sleep forms paper dreams
Of people and things she'll never see
As paper thin as her naked form
Her pale skin threatening to pop hipbones free

Hair is falling, teeth are yellow
As she kisses the cold, hard metal
Skeletal figure stumbles forward
This plan is turning fatal

She begs her paper heart to beat no more
She begs for her release
"My paper bones formed paper dreams,
I wish to be deceased."

This endless winter has to stop
This never ending quest to be thin
Slender hands and hollow cheeks
Drenched in her red sin

Sunkissed and messy headed
Blessed be that fashion sense
Her tangled mane is a metaphor, a facet
To her mangled brain
Not in the cute black-and-white, scrawled notecard manner
A carved-out, paper cut of a sheet
Crammed in the bottom of her bottle brained backpack

Worse than the weekly
Chic self-harmed hipbones,
She sits and eats and watches the world from the real world clones
The blanket's just hot enough to cook her down
Reduced to the ruched Jovani gown

She's got lists of friends, you have to
Scroll down a page
It even has to load awhile
Then why's your radius clear of anyone?
Pixelated fixtures of her mind, too close to miss her
Too close to care
So close, all they are's aware

Minds drone, like bone picking
Knowing you're the stick in the mud
Warm blood behind a boil, just kicking for
Another tab to click in

She's been braless awhile now
Profiled with purchases levels lapping her current state
She pinches skin impatiently, chocolate scouring her teeth
It's the bitter taste of something so horribly surface
They erase away the beneath.

Day glow orange fields fuzzy my vision
Attempts at removing the blinders are met with derision
My warm finger tips reach out to entwine with your cold ones
Always the familiar taste of fire dancing along your lips
Come here. Giggling softly into the fall of hair around your face
I want you
Our eyes tangle with heated single minded purpose
My mouth aching to wrap around the hard length of your ****
Rubbing my face softly against your hipbones
Your hands bury themselves in my tresses
Moan for me, breathe in harsh and back bowed torment
This tongue only ties and slides for you
Hot jets of *** coat the back of my throat
Your labored thoughts settling in the air between us
Pull harder next time, my scalp still isn't raw
Wet dripping smooth tight heat
Desire intensifies to need, fingers plucking gently at sensitive flesh
I look to you for a happy ending
Finding you fast asleep

ash stains and cosmopolatin zines
bathroom savoring night-rain
like lorn and lone trucker tobacco
sky forged in dark blues outside a cracked
window, like you in the closet ****
but the door opened up enough to tell.

1. flesh simpering but the voice a sullen
conversation of silence and broke dreams
television with hundred and forty channels
and half open beer cans.

2. silence still drags kissing and murdered
autumns, shadow of hands over flush skin
lurking moonlight invited.

in morning i'll wake with a human
but tonight you are a god with your hands
roaming my hipbones & sleep with
you, my mind running thoughts
like trains on spinal cord railroads

Two chicken strips
and half an order of fries
and my stomach hurts like hell.
You tell me
that I need to be strong
more so now than ever
because falling apart will have
dire consequences.
I'm not sure which would be stronger:
Restricting my appetite further,
or giving in to the temptation of
more than one or two small bits of food
per day?
Whether it is braver
to suffer through the pain
of chewing and swallowing,
or to attempt to curl myself into nonexistence
behind a locked bathroom door?
Is it stronger to work for hipbones
thigh gaps
sipping wine from my collarbones
pointed curves and sharp edges,
or to "accept" my thighs
my stomach
the way my skin covers my hipbones
to the point of indistinguishableness,
barely being able to wear tight shirts
for fear of how my abdomen looks,
I promised a week.
I promised a week
but all I can think about is
the control that I'm lacking
wondering if it's not food that I'm starved for
but self-hatred
and self control.

step one* // live in denial for most of your life. tuck yourself into closets and cupboards and slow-cooking pots of rice until all you have left to offer her is your warming breath

step two // warm her hands with your breath. tell her she's worth more than *that guy, than the number on the scale, than her grades, than anything in the world

step three // don't think about kissing her when her lips are bitten with worry. don't think about kissing her when you're tired and it's two a.m. and god, she looks so beautiful today. don't kiss her. don't kiss her

step four // let your breaths fill the closets again. you are eternal, you are infinite, you are alone, but you still have her

step five // write her a poem. metaphorize your heart of glass. verbally trace her hipbones. tell her she is a constellation.

step six // "accidentally" give her the poem. laugh it off when she says that poetry's not her thing, anyway.

step seven // only cry when you are alone.

step eight // bare your skeletons to her unflinching mouth. it's cold and dark where she comes from, too

step nine // when she tells you she loves you, let her. hold onto her tight enough to shatter your ribcage.

step ten // let her tear the breath from your lungs-it's all you had left, anyway.

I’ve gotta go home and clean,* you say.
Clean my scent from your sheets,
I want to tell you
Come closer, baby,
Untangle my limbs and
caress me down,
orchestrate my symphonies.
Didn’t you see the stars, too?

I remember your breath all
over me
and how I tasted my very existence
within it.
I remember seeing infinity
in the golden hazel of your eyes,
those **** bedroom eyes,
soothing me past my boundaries,
hands pushing past my hipbones
and into my infinity.

And I want to tell you that I still taste
your lips on my tongue
and I still feel your teeth grazing my skin but
I don’t tell you any of these things.
I look you dead in the eye
those bedroom eyes, boring into mine.
I wonder if you’re playing back the scene
you moving over me
and I say, Okay.

Our whole existence
narrowed into one word
and in that moment I think I hate you
but the thought of your hands on me
still makes my sun rise each day
and I wonder if maybe
I love you in spite of
all the things telling me not to.