i was born second
out of a pair of twins
on march the 1st 1990
i always ask
for an extra shot in my coffee
when i was a kid
my favourite power ranger
was the pink power ranger
i felt like this was wrong
so i pretended my favourite
was the ******* ranger
i am black & blue
from all the things
i beat myself up about
i used to carry my shame
like bags under my eyes
it was so heavy
i think that's why
i always over-pack
when i'm away from home
i am almost always
wearing sweatpants when i'm alone
if these walls could talk
i'm afraid that they wouldn't have much to say
except to tell you that
i'm getting better at letting go
of my shame
i live vicariously through drew barrymore
i can't ride a bike
my sense of balance is terrible
sometimes stringing together a sentence
feels like an assault course
and i am the least athletic person
you could probably meet
i am a perpetual mixture
of sunshine & sleet
i'm scared
that if you come into my bedroom
you will read all my secrets
on my sheets
the wrinkles on my forehead
are really threads
holding an earthquake
inside my mind
one day
i will burst at the seams
climb to my highest tower
and scream
"my favourite power ranger
is the pink ******* power ranger."

I feel the caress of my own fingers
on my own neck as I place my collar
and think pityingly
of the kind women I have known.

Tripping on acid the other night
And staring at the clouds, the trees
I realized that I just wanted
To be seeing the trees as they were
Rather than as a shifting pattern
Synthesized in a lab somewhere
To separate fully
What is seen what is there

And after the day was done
And I climbed in to my bed,
Realizing that it no longer smelled
As much like trees as it did
Sweat, *****, and smoke,
It took me quite a while
To fully fall asleep

A growling tummy
Itchy scars
But you just want to feel
Beautiful
Skinny
Free
Feel anything really
Other than the darkness
Trying to bring you back in
As an old comforting friend

i wanna be a map
that you fold
& keep in your pocket
mark me with
"you are here"
on my chest
just a little to the left
take a drive down my veins
you'd be surprised
where my roads could take you
tie your thread
to every inch of my body
that you have ever visited
i wanna wear a sweater
made entirely out of your hands
'X' marks the spot
open me
like a treasure chest
i am not gold inside
no,
but my hidden treasures
are all yours
you are an adventure
i wanna get lost
all over the landscapes
of you
plan a route
that leads you
straight into my sheets
there are cities in the palms of my hands
won't you come
& explore
the vastness
of me.

and to think
that right then

I could be waking up in
some strange woman's bed
confused
&
overflowing with self-loathing

the empty words
bouncing back and forth
or
the chill of the morning air
as I searched for the warmth that wasn't there

no kiss goodbye
no real regard

with the drive back to life
spent too much in my head

in some ways I envy those
who can act
without
feeling

But in more ways I'm grateful
I'm only capable
of real
human connection

maps don't exist for
the hardest routes,
instead only for those green diamond
lines playing over manuscript flat paper,
long like flutes extending out over and up
mountain ridges, down across narrow
beaches leading to fisherman rooftops
taking hits from the ocean in front.

We must make our own way lost,
ending up somewhere ill and icy,
dressed up in the frost in nothing but socks, unwashed
from the running, screaming grace from the
windowsills;
it's a place most won't meet, won't want to meet,
but will nevertheless greet with wide open, French patio door
arms.