Is it too early
to say that
I love you?
Would the words kiss
your lips as well,
or fall into a heap at my feet?
Would your eyes hold mine like
the stars are held by the
night sky?
Would you dare look over your shoulder,
bite your tongue,
and push my hand away?
Am I asking for too much?
Is your heart something I'm
not allowed to want?
Is my own not pure enough to
beat in time with yours?
Am I too boring, too
needy, too ugly for you to
care for?
Would you say
"I love you" back,
or would I only
be given silence?

He saw them,
two little red lines right below
her elbow.
He ran his finger over one again
and again,
making her confession
his reality.
They burned the
tip of his skin, but he
wanted to feel her
scars, so maybe
he could understand.
He wanted her to know he
felt them,
that it was okay.
But her still hid them underneath
her sleeve,
like crimson tattoos gotten on
a drunken night.

"Are you scared?"
She stared into his brown
eyes, forcing him to
see the darkness behind the browns
and greens of hers.
"No".
She placed his hands on
her collar bones,
running them down her shoulder
blades, sticking out like
bird wings,
then over her ribcage,
down to her hips.
"Are you scared now?"
He shook his head.
She stuck her arms out for him
to see,
cuts new and old visible on her
placid wrists.
She took his hand again,
and ran his fingertips over her
wounds.
"Still not scared?"
He refused to answer.
This time, she stepped away,
unscrewing the top from
her head,
releasing her demons into him.

If only sleep would
come sooner,
so I can curl up  in
bed and pretend that you
still love me.
Your breath at my neck,
my body firm against yours,
you'd whisper how pretty I am,
and I'd mumble a protest,
too tired to try and
deny it further.
But then I open my eyes and
the place beside me
is empty.
You aren't here tonight,
and you aren't coming any other.
I'm lonely without you, but
you wouldn't care;
you know that I miss you, but
you still don't care.
I pull the blankets
tighter around me,
wishing it was you I was
falling asleep with, and not
a pile of pillows.

One day she'll leave everything;
the color-changing leaves,
the fallen snow she played in on
gray winter days,
the sun in her eyes as she tried to block it
with a thin white arm.
The mirrors will be gone,
no longer able to torment her with
her waistline, her ribs, her hipbones;
she won't feel hungry anymore,
only light-headed and full of air,
too afraid to say she's starving.
She'll walk away from
her mother, frail with worry;
her father, unable to speak his;
her best friend, always there with her
on the edge of it all.
And there he is,
holding her against his sweatshirt,
thinking it'll warm the cold inside her.
He doesn't know she's not there;
he's only holding her shell,
now hollow and empty
like her stomach.

You call me beautiful,
but the only beauty you see is
the dip of a neckline,
the shade of a lipstick,
the length of a skirt.
Please, tell me I'm not
skinny enough, my hips are
too wide;
go on about how my hair needs
to be longer and my waist smaller,
my heels higher and my voice softer.
Say my skin isn't clear enough, my nails
are too short.
I am a material thing,
dressed up
like a doll, a Barbie.
I am not a woman, but
your plaything.
You want me to talk less and listen more,
when all I want to do is scream.

The man in the moon likes to
stay up late.
He sleeps during the day
when the sun is high,
then wakes up
when we go to bed.
He keeps the lights on to
block out the dark,
lighting up the moon
like a giant disco ball.
The stars are his only friends,
but they come and go
as they please.
He's left with his thoughts,
contemplations of the sky.
He blocks out the mocking of
those bigger than he-
planets and shooting stars.
But without the man in the moon
they'd be lost,
and he'd be just a dark rock
hanging in the sky.