My imagination
is the all-encompassing *****.
Composed of touchable red curves,
she speaks
in dark, melted tones that drip
& cool to harden at their destination.

She’s the sort of insatiable pursuit
most boys are taught to desire.
She’s the well-spoken lady
most gentlemen deserve.

She transfigures into
the most verboten temptations
& acts as the pair of arms
that will suddenly slam you up against a wall.
She eases into you with her starved gaze
& examines your every possible inch.
She leaves you with nothing to hide.

Scrupulous? Undeniably so.

She touches whatever she wishes
with gloveless fingertips
& ***** your mouth dry
of all bitter objection.
She leaves you speechless--
but smiling.

My imagination?
She is a bombshell,
& I think I like her better than me.

While I was sleeping,
you snuck in through the window.
I can only hope you had the usual
sly grin stretched across your lips.

You had a strict agenda
& pockets full of good intentions.
Slinking around the perimeter
of my living room,
you gingerly fondled each piece of my literature
& slipped little folds paper
between the pages of every book.

In green ink,
you had written snippets of song lyrics
& the quotes less quoted
by those famous individuals
we had both come to admire.

It was a dream,
& in it, I grew older.
But I continued to discover them—
flashes of green
slow-floating to the floor
whenever I’d crack open one of their tired spines.

I’m glad you can manage
to seep into my subconscious
now and again,
& trick me
**into dreaming in color.

Raised Catholic, she
proposed that ******* count
as valid worship

on Sunday mornings.
See, God is present then— she
screams His name enough.

Let me be frank.
For once this poem is not about you.
It's about me.  

I was born nine days late
& I've been trying to make up for lost time ever since.
But I've never felt the need to rush
anything
or anywhere—or anyone.
I went through more band-aids than Barbies growing up
& I used to love to climb trees—
until I fell out of one.
I've got about seventeen different favorite colors
including cerulean, yellow ochre, & ******’s green—
They all exist, I swear.
I used to stock oil paints in the college bookstore.
I think I told you that before, right?

Crap.
Me.
This poem is about me.

I knew I wanted to write every since my
stubby, five-year old fingers
punched the keys on my mom’s old college typewriter.
I would take naps beside it, listening to the hums & whirrs
of that beautiful blue machine.
I think I've been in a dreamy state of mind ever since.
I’m almost positive it's stunted my growth.
I've never been taller than 5’3”—
but I like that my feet never touch the floor
when we sit in restaurant booths.
& I like that my head falls on your heart
whenever I hug you.
I try so hard to hear your heart murmur—
though I can never seem to find it.

****.

Swedish Fish are my kryptonite,
& love sinking my teeth into fresh cantaloupe.
I enjoy slowly peeling the labels off of my beer bottles.
Some say that means I’m sexually frustrated.
I don’t really buy it.
I say I just like to constantly be doing something
with my little hands.
I’m happiest when I’m in the water & when I’m singing—
which makes my shower one of my favorite places
in the world.

I used to be a sucker for drummers,
before I was a sucker for guitarists.
Now I’m just a sucker for anything
with a sense of humor & good high five.
I’m good at picking out people’s quirks
& putting them into words.
I observe more than I speak—
& sometimes, I think that bothers you.
You know me— you can tell
that I’m not divulging the entirety of my thoughts.

**** it.

I have to see the ocean every year
& marvel its size—
if only to remind me how small my problems really are.
It's painstakingly obvious that I'm a Scorpio
& I don't necessarily think that's a good thing,
but I try to own it as best as I can.
I love the smell of extinguished candles, warm lighting,
& adding the “and many more” every time I sing “Happy Birthday.”

I like a lot of things.
I am a lot of things.
I can do a lot of things—
like sing all fifty states in alphabetical order,
make roses out of paper napkins,
& play “Oh Susanna” flawlessly on my harmonica.

But one thing I can't do lately—
one thing I have clearly failed to do on the whole
is write anything
without a piece of you in it.

They gave me a name that didn’t suit me.
What’s funny is
the universe recognized that
before I did.

She paid me this compliment:

“There’s too much person to you.
You can’t be tripped up with so many
syllables in something so trivial as a name.
Less speaking, more breathing,” she said.

Four reduced to two.
Now I can exist in half the time.

I became “Bitsy.”
Which means I’m associated
with certain things.
Mainly tiny spiders
and brightly pattered swimwear.
It’s easy to be irked by that, you know.
Yet, I smile and take it,
because they raised me
with the patience of an idiot.

I get automatic cute points
just for introducing myself with a name like this.
Newcomers get giddy,
like hearing my name is equivalent
to receiving a box of kittens.
I always try to drop an expletive or two—
I just don’t want them
to get the wrong f#@%ing impression.

“Less speaking, more breathing.”

I instructed the universe
not to do me any more favors.

I walk down the street
and there is just this radiating *** appeal
in everything I could possibly do—
even in the way the rubber on my shoes
grips the hot cement sidewalks.
(I realize that may not sound too ****—
at all;
But I’m confident that in this moment
someone is drooling over that step.)
Unmistakable swagger.
A few more moments of this
untouchable cool
& Morgan Freeman will be narrating
my every thought and movement.*

At least
that’s the way you make me feel.

How dare you.

You have the audacity to become
something so earmarked in my
little,
inconsequential,
twentysomething life.

You have the guts
to learn all of those
hidden quirks.
The same ones I relentlessly
and rightfully
keep to myself.

You have the nerve
to become the reason
why I smile for days,
go to bed alone
(but beaming)
& wake up with a larger reason
to grab life by its
big
metaphorical
*****
until it sees things my way.  

& I’m aware that
“*****” may not be the most
poetic of terms—
but the last time I checked,
poetry didn’t have
a **** definition

The last time I checked—
neither do we.

So how dare you
build me up into the only person
I can stand to be,
with only the promise
of an impending expiration date?

Then again,
there is something strangely
haunting
& remarkable
revolving around
the anticipation of that sort of heartache.

Everyone wants a definition.
I don’t care for those things.
I reserve them for dictionaries,
and associate them with uptight individuals who live life undecorated.

We’re conditioned to crave that black and white—
everything simply categorized;

“A place for everything and everything in its place.”

I hate that.
I really, really do.
But I like you.

& listen, I can do without the definitions—
But opinions—those I want.
The individualized answers expressed in a non-textbook-fashion.

As in, “What are your thoughts on Sunday mornings?”
You know, when we hold each other for as long as we like,
and drift in and out of sleep well into the late afternoon.

An opinion.
As in, “I can’t stand the thought of being a part of someone’s collection.”
And I know that’s not a question.
But I can bet on this: You have something to say about that.

An opinion.
As in, “I would totally lay claim to you if I could.”
But you’re not into being claimed—
And I’m not into chasing things that don’t want to be caught.
I was never was a very effective huntress—
Unless, of course, it’s for typos or a triple word score.

I’m not reaching in the dark.
I’m not holding my breath.
But
If you want my opinion—

Fewer things feel worse than this.