i'm watching from inside
a glass case,
the delicate pieces of time immemorial
arranged in displays around me,
layouts they memorize but never really notice.
when someone passes by
the pieces all quiver,
fragile ceramics in a chorus of jingles
trying to catch their attention.
but the sound becomes a part of the backdrop,
like the slightest groan of a floorboard beneath the rug
or the squeak of a cabinet door.
we rattle closer to the edge,
pressing our faces against the glass
to get a glimpse of home:
still-lifes done by a familiar hand,
worn wooden floors that don’t match the rest,
a room that hasn’t been painted in decades.
a few times each year
on special occasions
you open the cabinet door
and let us adorn the dinner table.
and then it’s back to our shelves,
watching from behind the glass,
waiting for a glimpse of home.

there ought to be more love poems
for the ones who hold their pens tighter
than they’ve ever held anybody else.

ink that spells out love stories greater
than they ever were when we lived them,
memories crafted between meetings
that made them larger than life.

there ought to be more love poems
for the ones who make playlists
that spell it all out,
titles that fit together like jigsaw puzzles,
rhythm ‘n blues and i love yous.

line after line about a beauty
too great to bear,
the one they reached for,
clutched in their hands
until it slipped and shattered
and left us with the shards.

there ought to be more love poems
for the ones with hand-written letters
in tea-stained notebooks,
fingers tipped in glitter,
and paper flowers that smell like jasmine.

there ought to be
more love poems for me.

one mistake
when you were too young
to know how to play by the rules,
when lines were blurred and
first times felt like finallys.

you had to tell him it was over
seven
separate
times,
had to endure each time
he passed too close to you at work.
until, mercifully,
you never saw him again.

two mistakes
still too young to understand right and wrong
but old enough to understand the spark
and the beat of the music.

you let him do the things
that made him keep one eye out
for anyone you knew,
because you thought you were special
until the night you realized you weren't.
all the times you left smelling like him
turned into a burning on your skin it took you years to wash away.

three mistakes
three strikes,
old enough, but not for him.
still too naive for the secret meetings that didn't feel wrong
until they did.

the first time there was lots of blood
and he wiped away your tears
while you hyperventilated on the bathroom floor.
he brought you water
and then kicked you out
and found new ways to do it all again
until you'd had enough.

when do we forget?
it isn’t two years from the time
someone took your breath away and
made you feel like something truly special,
only to vanish like smoke
and come creeping back
just when you thought it was gone.

it isn’t three years from the time
you woke up and realized that none of your real friends
seemed to have a problem with the man you were dating;
too old, too childish, too great a mistake
to ever forget.
quiet nights waiting for him to come home
from the bar after lessons because you aren’t
yet old enough to go with.
perhaps you were old enough to know better,
but no one ever told you it was time
to learn what a relationship really looks like.

it isn’t four years from the time
you felt like you were following a script,
doing what you thought was right or
expected of you, because you never knew
any better.
he was the first to ask,
and it’s okay that you were confused,
but that doesn’t mean you get to forget.

it isn’t five years from the time
before you understood the things
no one had ever explained to you,
that flirting doesn’t always mean infatuation,
that age does, in fact, mean something.
your first kiss had you feeling like you were
floating off the ground,
and you turned it into poetry
so you would never forget.

it isn’t six years from the time
you felt like someone wanted you
for the first time ever,
looked at you, liked you, appreciated you.
no one had explained that some men
do what they do to any woman who happens by,
that you aren’t special, just in the wrong place
at the right time
to be somebody else’s prey.

we never get to forget these things.
even when it feels like it’s gone,
when you finally get to breathe again,
to feel the touch of the man you love without
wanting to freeze up or suddenly
cross the room.
but eventually, it comes back.
in a name, in a place,
in a person who looks a little too much
like the ones who did this.
they always make sure we’ll never forget.

Start with the dirt.
And the blood.
And the stuff that’s caked beneath your fingernails.

Scrub, and rinse,
and scrub again,
because that’s all that’s coming off.

You’ll never be able to wash away those
fingerprints etched into your skin,
an ectoplasmic stain that no one else can see.

Let the bathroom fill with steam,
let your skin grow red beneath the scalding water,
let it show you the other things you can still feel.

Because five years from now,
maybe you catch a glimpse in the mirror,
that person you used to be looking back at you.

You can scrub, and rise,
and scrub again,
but you’ll never wash away
the things you wish you’d never felt.

There’s an IHOP off I-40
that makes me smile when I see it.
It reminds me of a run-down diner: “International **,”
red lights half burnt out,
a rainy night in Waukegan when you got the Mike’s
and I started drinking in the passenger’s seat
on the car ride back.

It’s my favorite story, the one I always tell.
Ridiculous, stupid, all the mistakes that I still pay for
when we broke our own rules.

The night passed in a haze of cranberry and lemon,
the Mike’s Harder spilling out onto pavement because
we both thought it was truly disgusting.
And you bought me snacks from the vending machine
in the lobby of your dorm.
I sat on the floor beside it,
giggling because you bought me something just ‘cause
I gasped when I saw it.
You tried to jam a Rice Krispy Treat into my mouth to make me eat something,
but I couldn’t stop laughing.

It’s euphoric, letting go of your troubles with your
best friend at your side.
It was one of the last big moments of You and I.

That’s not the part of the story I usually tell, though.
The real peak was the next morning
when I discovered I had blacked out –
the first and only time –
and my roommate woke to see me
vomiting gracelessly into the trashcan.
My breakfast was mostly blue Gatorade.

The tragic twist in this story wasn’t the
endless nausea, the stale taste in my mouth,
but my haircut appointment in the afternoon.
I could’ve walked to the train, but
you gave me a ride down the mercilessly
winding roads of Highland Park.
You told me I didn’t look so good, and I smile
when I remember how nervous you sounded
thinking I was going to ***** in your car.
I didn’t even make it out of my seat;
I was bent, elbow over knee,
depositing that blue Gatorade onto the pavement
of an apartment complex
while a military family and their dog passed by.

That’s my favorite story.
The one where we were just us, partners in crime,
making mistakes that brought enough laughter
to last us a lifetime.

There are many more, but that’s the last one I have,
the one before our friendship was eroded
by an unidentified toxin that stripped our bonds away.

I laugh, and I smile,
because they’re my memories too.
I just wish they were more than
memories of you.

back again
in those familiar recesses,
the dark parts of my thoughts
that used to be locked away.

i miss the feeling of my safety blanket,
its weight in my hand,
small enough to fit in my palm.
in a glint of silver,
it reminded me that i have control;
to always look but never touch.

the tight grip was satisfaction enough,
just a hint of what could be,
the flirtation of blood beneath skin begging to be let loose.

but it's different now.
there are no piano benches to be broken,
no dark pools beckoning me to their depths,
no promise of escape.

i know that it will never be done.
the blood will never spill,
the skin will never break over bruised and swollen knuckles.
i will keep existing between the days –
existing,
but never truly living

– and just how many times can i think i want to die