Sometimes I think about my choices

Sometimes I think about my hair
Sometimes I think about Plath's
her bright red her hair; and how she would eat me

     like air. Why

am I in all the other places with pictures on walls
of people who wouldn't have thought of me
     for how long
the way I think of them.

     Oh. A mirror.

Shook hands before poll,
shook confidence after the poll,
The politician.

conserve me
like the growing things
curling their tendrils
between our souls on this earth.

feed me your love
but let me pour back into you
wash the fear from my eyes
after every successive song
like shifting waves
off the ocean at your back;

my tears were salty on your tongue
but the wind dried them
as we scaled mountains
of love & dipped into valleys
of shadow & mystery.

My sweetheart, the sea yonder,
My beautiful wonder,
My awesome tutor,
You have cast your enchanting spell over me,
For you,I yearn,
Lost in the heart of the great ocean,
So vast, depth unknown.
Calm, rough and unrestrained,
So many colours you contain,
Shimmering silver at dawn,
Green at noon, a glittering gown,
Blue in the evening with fishing boats sewn.
As I stand on the shore,
The waves play an encore,
As they lace their sprays around me,
I love you blue sea.
When I sit on the cliff edge,
I see you fume in rage,
Battering against the rocks,
Crying seagulls above me flock,
You calling me out ,
Without a doubt,
You are my lover at all cost,
In your soul I wish to be lost.

The morning begins with another bottle. Her
broken mirror has already spoken its lies,
crucified her  with a stranger's face invading
her bathroom.
Later
the stairwell does not echo her footseps
as she descends, carefully, one foot, then the other,
the exact placement of each step thoughtfully
considered, planned out and
executed with a grace that is almost
Procrustean.
She leaves no shadow behind herself, throws
away words into the deep green silence.
They fall.
I could get a job, she tells herself,
listening to the silence of her footsteps.
I could blunt the stings of honeybees,
gather the nectar of drones.
Her feet sink into the softness of the stairsteps.
At the bottom, she opens the locked door of the mailbox
hugs junkmail to her breast.
Her fingers leak tiny drops of blood
over the sealed envelopes. Her mouth
is full of dust. She eats her memories.

i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.

i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.

let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.

because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
                                         you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
                                          i tell you that i have been to four.
                                          names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
                    30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.

let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
                       tragic, isn’t it.

you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
                                             i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
                                                                ­                 let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.

let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
                                             and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.

                                              tragic, isn’t it.