I've had days. I've had back room, bare faced, broken days.
I mark them on my calendar with silver stars. And 2013 is starting to look like the night sky
On a crystal canvas.
Beauty from pain. Bitter cliches.
Cliches are cliches for a reason. And not because they're applicable.
Because they are vague.
Because to you it means a Phoenix. A girl reborn.
But to me it means blood that fell on the snow so perfectly
That the drops turned to petals and you saw a rose.
All I saw was red.
I don't know my own mind. Sometimes I feel we haven't met yet.
That she passes me by on the street corners with a smile and a nod but
She doesn't know my bones.
All she's learned to see is cellulite and blood.
I tell her to look at the bone.
The pure inside we have both forgotten.

I've had days. Pill bottle, smoke cloud, red nosed days.
Days that smell like cold fingers. Days that feel like cigarette mittens.
Days that belong next to the fire place with a warm mug.
I've found my eyes lost in ember and the cackle of the flames.
I've felt mocked by the dead and inanimate. But somehow my head stays in place.
I continue on a course of blatant sanity.
I guess I have met my mind. But we don't get along.
She runs fast but tires quickly.  And one of us always lags behind the other.
Like an inconstant tide.

I've had days. Pale faced, smoky eyed, purging days.
Days that sit on street corners hungry. Days that lost their weight.
Days when I wanted to crawl out of my skin to see how it looks from the outside.
It occurs to me that I haven't met my eyes face to face.
I've seen their likeness in glass but never their glow as they caught the ember and filled with tears.
I will never understand my mind or shake her hand and that's fine.
But maybe just once I'd like to meet my eyes.

I've had days. Sun window, pink cheeked, puffy coat days. Days when I remember spring.
Days when I thaw.
Days when my mind and eyes and bones can hold contented hands and understand each other.
I think I'm learning. Learning to meet myself in every mirror glance, every blushing touch, every tear, each awkward giggle.
Perhaps I will be able to face them.
To know my mind without formal introduction.
To meet by bones without seeing their white.
See my eyes face to face without leaving my skin.
And there will be days when I can't.
I've had those days. I've had many days.
Dark room days, glazed eye haze days, cold white winter wet days, warm window welcome days. That's the funny thing about days.
They too never meet.
They pass each other on street corners with a nod and a smile. Forgotten from time and the mind that they
Never met.