As a little girl, I held
books that took up my whole lap,
reading stories of knights
and damsels in distress,
full of evil and love, and
every other piece of magic a kid
can gobble up like drops of
honey and sugar.
I absorbed each tale like a sponge:
Rapunzel, with hair long and golden,
tossing it down the length of her
tower for the man waiting below;
Sleeping Beauty, asleep with love on
her lips for a hundred years until
someone was willing to take it;
Cinderella, running at the stroke of
midnight, for fear of her beauty
fading, only to be found by the size of
her dainty foot.
Now I stare out the window of
a second-story bedroom, barefoot,
hair surrounding my face like a red halo,
wondering if there is
a happy ending for me,
or if I'm destined
to read lies and stare out windows,
wishing everyday for
my prince to come and
sweep me off my feet,
instead of some girl in
a tower or one fast asleep.

I can't give you handfuls of dollar bills,
crip and new and ready to be spent,
only stacks of sentences, flowing together like
the melody of a piano.
All I can give are my thoughts
that stain the paper, splotches of blue
and black, straight lines and curves.
Give me your heart,
and I'll give you a poem,
a sonnet,
a love song.
I'll link my hand with yours around a pen
and write our words as one,
a harmony of both of us,
things we both wish we could give the other,
when all we have are words,
cheap as a sheet of lined paper.

I'm scared.
        Of the next time I
                     worry,
        of the urges that come
                     after.
I now fear the
             blade
more than the
            blood,
more than the monsters inside
                     my head.
        The screams become
                    louder,
        the tears run
                    harder,
everything blows into
                   oblivion.
           You look in the mirror,
           see the fear reflected
           in the edge of your
              pupils,
           dancing in the ring
               of your iris.
           The real fear is
             of yourself,
           blade in your hand,
           blood on your arms.

My life is measured in
calories,
grams of sugar,
pounds of fat.
I poke my arms,
grab my thighs and stomach,
trying to find less of
me than yesterday.
I count the times I
step onto the scale,
do the math down to the
decimal point,
hate myself for gaining,
hate myself for losing.
I want to see hip
bones, collar bones, every bone
jutting out of my body.
I want to be tiny and
breakable, like a little
procealin doll,
pale and painted and
perfect.
I want the number on that
electronic screen to
drop to double digits,
so there's nothing blocking the
view of my
feet on the scale.

I take one step forward, only
to take two steps back,
looking over my shoulder,
afraid to leave you behind.
But he's right there, so close that if
I reach out a hand, I can graze
his white cheek with my fingertips.
But there you are, right behind me,
your arms open wide like you'll
actually catch me if I fall back.
I'm stuck in between now and
a memory, not sure where my heart
is, only sure of the throb of the
questions it holds in its chambers.
Why can't I forget your blue eyes that
bore into mine,
and replace them with the thought of his,
big and brown and innocent?
How can I take his heart in my hands
when they easily crushed yours and left
both of us bleeding?