They didn't know that
her heart was perpetually on vacation,
stuffed
between the pages of Austen and
Murakami.

Yes, they loved her
autumn smiles, her conversations, even
the jazz ensembles of her
clothes. But her heart
was locked in the New York Public Library.

The distance was far
too great, the risk far
too much.
After all, this was the place where Paul
Varjak told Holly
he loved her
and all she did was look at him.

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

I cut
Just to feel alive.

I cry
Just to feel pain.

I skip meals
Just to feel worthy.

I don't sleep
Just to feel something.

Now, I don't even know
If I'm feeling anything at all.

Your words are crystal clear
But my loving dear,
This love we share, I seem to fear.

Your words sound so sweet
But the truth is my love,
You were never truly mine.

Our love is like a trapped bird
Dying in its cage.
Longing for that one last taste of freedom.

And now,
Just like every other love story
I must let you go.
Because when we love something too much,
We must set it free.

My Radius
   Mine distance
'tween the center of mine
      and my edges
('cause I am not exactly
           spherical, Varies, I guess)
The differences divided
          by a varying circumference
diameters changing
      makes it SO hard to divide the pi
squaring it  

(or trying to multiply by zero)

Makes absolutely
zero sense
            poses more questions than geometry
or algebra,
(far as I know, might be a constant, somewheres)
the I = me?

trigonometrical nonsense?

Your smile* is medication to me
Your story is inspiration to me
Your body is an addiction to me
Your words are hallucinations to me

Your love was what saved me
Your eyes were what enslaved me
Your mind was what craved me
Your tears were what caved me

Your looks are what will conceal me
Your hatred is what will chill me
Your anger is what will fill me
Your departure is what will **** **me