The curve of her shoulder blade were the same valleys in her eyes:

Long summer days drawn out by even longer sunsets.

I can still hear her laugh, feel the tickle of grass where she sat beside me:

His was a memory long gone.

She kisses me on the mouth, once, twice:

Her breath brushes my cheek. “Don’t worry,”

She chides, as she always does, though she knows this is of no help at all, nor am I to take her seriously:

I will heal in my own time.

My hands drift across her upper torso- what beauty, how pliant;

I try to admire every bit of her, as he did not do to me.

She bites her lip, knows it will not be long before I have to go:

Since that autumn two moons ago, I bid my farewells early.

Since that autumn two moons ago, I curl up in bed feeling lonely.

Since that autumn two moons ago, when his teeth clacked against mine and his hands were the apocalypse I could never dare to fight;

Since.

It is the only place I feel safe
When sometimes my room feels too open:
I hide away in my closet
(And perhaps a joke can be made out of that
And perhaps it already has,
But it doesn't matter, anyway-
I've already told those who wouldn't hurt me.)
Recovering in the dark,
Where the monsters are familiar
And this small space originally deemed claustrophobic
Settles me,
My shoulders bracketed by the door and the back
The only hug I'll seem to get.

It seems that
The only thing that warms me now
Is the scalding water
Of my showerhead.

My bones are all my sad endings and lost loves and destroyed galaxies soldified.

No hero's smile or requited love or photogenic nebula
Will ever do it for me.
Not any more, at least.

The muscle in my chest has rotten away to reveal cobwebs and a chill;
Even before the heart had gone to waste it had already been out of use
For a long time.
The veins and arteries once filled with life are now static,
Little tubes that serve no function.

My palms open and close-
Or, I think they do.
If my heart is gone, how have I lived on?
I assess the state of my chest cavity.
Oh.

I have not.
I am but a tangle of thoughts in my consciousness left to stew in limbo,
A fitting punishment of corporeal suffering
For the body that once held
Me.

Sixteen, and already she feels so tired
A weariness that settles in her bones like no other;
And they too- the bones- they ache.
Shadows under her eyes
Like the ones that reside in Hades' domain-
Wicked and taunting and cruel and
Hellish
That don't seem to disappear.
Her gaze is vacant, attention slipping
Always casting about, from the
Styrofoam coffee cup to the newly parked car in the lot
To the aging sign advertising an open auto shop
- 24 hours a day, and the unlit neon bulbs
Look as ancient as
Her grandmother's wedding ring.
She sighs,
Takes a sip of coffee,
Then closes her eyes.
The vinyl seat cover under her is cool to the touch.

"How are you?"

"I am fine."

"How are you?"

"I am fine."

"How are you?"

And it goes on and on and on,
This courteous game no one invests in
Half-glances sliding over you
Catalouging your state briefly before
Moving onto something else

The unspoken rules of this game dictate
That you keep to routine.
How are yous and I am fines,
Never change
Never stop.
Never, ever, change.

It does not matter
If these are not truths
It does not matter
If you feel like your skin is bursting
And your head is exploding
And your heart is shrieking
And your blood is singing.

They must ask How are yous
And you must say, I am fines

"I am-"

But.

I am not.

I am not fine you want to scream and shout You have not been fine since last year the year you discovered that you don’t matter you are only worth the As in your report book. The teacher’s assessment of you is unfair yet true and you are never anything less than troubled. Red becomes the colour you see behind your eyelids in the dark and in the day When the red stands out and even if it doesn’t because that’s all. You. Can. Think. About. It is the colour under the skin of your thighs when you slap too hard It is the colour that spills over the skin of your forearms where you hide the cuts under sleeves You are falling falling a dizzy mess No one but you will taint this metaphorical white dress. You dig in your work. You solve math problem after math problem and buy new highlighters to line the pages of your Biology textbook and you pay attention in History class even though your friend elbows you in the ribs to get your attention to show off her latest doodle. But still red redred red red red redred dred ered red red is all you can think about, you don’t like the colour but now you just might. it keeps you sane. After class when no one paid attention and everyone disrupted it you ran to the bathroom to create more so. You tell your friends and they look at you sadly but forget later. It takes you months of not eating properly and starving yourself of sentiment before you realize you are too young to be jaded. Other, better friends (though it is no fault of your older ones) pull you through. You learn to like simple things again. You throw yourself in articles and articles of the feminist movement and watch that new TV show and make more friends that loosen you up and make you laugh and dance. You take pictures and create memories again. You live a little more again. You are making progress.

"-fine."