I am in his bed
We are laughing while carelessly exploring the roadmaps of each other’s bodies
His hands run their coarseness over the soft of my skin
I smile, he smiles,
Lifts his head, locks his eyes into mine and says,
"You are the perfect amount of thick."
I feel my stomach fold itself paper airplane and my head starts to spin with the sudden weightlessness
He does not know the impact of his language painted compliment
Before I can even comprehend his words I draw a grin onto my face so falsely wide that I imagine myself becoming caricature, toss my hair calmly over my left shoulder and without a second of defense,
I say thank you.
I say it
Like the categorization of my figure isn't a box I have been trying to fit into my whole life, I say thank you like I've never had to squeeze myself into almost
I give gratitude like I am truly appreciative for the approval his lips have given me, as if our intimacy wasn't enough confirmation already
I say thank you, grateful that I am not too much but terrified that I could easily become just that
I have origami twisted my bones too many times to feel anything but bent in the all of the parts of me I still cannot find comfort in
I often abandon taking care of myself like it is something I need a reminder to do
I have my body is home tattooed on my wrist when most days it feels more like a rental
I let him pretend to love me the way I do with myself always
I let him call me perfect like it's a word that has never made me a sacrifice
I let him call me thick like I am the meat on his dinner plate, cut exactly for his taste
I can't help but wonder if one extra layer of fat would cease his appetite for me

He says these words without knowing how many times I have had to cut myself into pieces to fit into hungry mouths
He means his to be flattering and sweet
He intends nothing more than to worship my body in the best way he knows how to
But there cannot be religion for those who do not understand that this temple is leftover from a war
A fight of not enough, of an excess, of too much, of just right, of not even close
I have never been good at finding balance
This body is a safe haven for lost souls
It impossible to not expand when so many stories live inside of it
I want to tell him that the density in my limbs and the mountain range that covers the surface is the only form of protection I have
This shape is not a choice, it is survival
I cannot predict when or how I will grow if I do and if I do,
I cannot expect love to give me any less than what it does now
Even if there is none in the equation
I stopped counting and adding and multiplying a lot time ago, my weight is a formula I don't allow myself to know the answer to
And far as I'm concerned, I don't need it
For each human I bare my nakedness to, I hold my breath in hopes that there will be no earthquake in my vulnerability, no shatter of the ground below us as a result of being bare
I am afraid of cracking the ground of tomorrow with who I am today
So do not tell me infallible
Do not feed me adjectives served on a gold platter
I will not take what it is I do not create
Even if interest is shown in each curve I have,
There are better ways of expression
And this thick,
Is only mine to say it is.

I’m the kind of person who
will sacrifice an entire night of sleep
just to be next to someone
who will disappear as soon
as morning comes.

I spend too much time searching for home in people
I compare too many of them to the likes of it
I find new ones often and always
And I have made routine in my arrival
I set down my things, make myself comfortable
Find a spot next to the fireplace, directly in the presence of warmth
I curl between blankets and couches
I get to know the surroundings
I notice parts that most tenants would neglect to
Details are my specialty; I note each down with a sense of clarity
I create a photo album in my head for every part I should not remember
But I do, almost effortlessly
All of my senses take notes in permanent ink
I keep track of scent, sound, taste, touch, images
I engrain them into muscle memory
I begin to forget that this place I have settled in,
Isn’t mine to get used to
And when I have overstayed my welcome,
I am asked to go
I pack up, leaving most of me behind in the hurry
Once again I am forced to move and start over
I always do.

I look for home in too many people who’s hearts aren’t available for lease,
Bodies that are merely curtains hiding wreckage
I knock on locked doors hoping for an invitation inside
And the ones that are open are usually not prepared for company
I move in eagerly to creaky floorboards and leaking roofs
I pretend that there is nothing wrong with the structure
And when the house caves in I claim I didn’t know better
I willingly stand under shelter that doesn’t have the strength to hold even itself up
Then complain about the lack of protection when the rain comes
Natural disasters are as unpredictable as I am eager for constancy
But it is no fault but my own when I build upon fault lines
I know the weather forecast and still continue to create
I have become skilled at making something out of nothing
And nothing, I’ve learned, can only stretch for so long.

Grandpa loved angels
Kept them scattered throughout his room, his house, his life
On everything from pictures, to figurines, to trinkets
Alissa found a penny with an imprint of wings with the year of her birth on it shortly after he died
How strange, we all thought
Grandpa had a lot of things,
Luck charms, knick-knacks, practical jokes he carried just in case
He kept his humor in his back pocket

I visit my grandmother in her home that used to be theirs
She is now as vacant as the Detroit winters are cold; the ten years without him have stripped her of any warmth
I think a part of her left when he did

I enter his study and look through every drawer, discovering a part I neglected to understand when it was present
I never showed much interest in anything he told me when he was still around
I only really knew of the things he kept in drawers, cabinets, on shelves
Everything he owned is as constant as it ever was
His belongings remain untouched as if he hasn’t been gone for over a decade
I feel too much alive in this office of a dead man

I run curious fingers over the bindings of books, stopping to pull at Dickinson, a faded collection of poetry inked with flowers on the front cover
I remember the dictionary the size of my six-year-old palm that intrigued me so greatly; the ability to fit so many words into such a small area was nothing short of fascinating
It is the one physical memory I took home with me after the funeral
I had wanted it always
I now picture it hiding in the back of my drawer in my childhood bedroom where I know it still is

On his desk there are so many key chains, bills from another generation, maps, postcards, watches
So many things I am not sure what to call them
I am not sure about a lot but
Grandpa loved angels
Angels and ***** jokes
One to keep you safe and the other to make you laugh
I keep both with me always,
Just in case.

We are laughing while passing a bottle back and forth between the two of us
Our breath reeks of nicotine vapor and the remnants of marijuana mixed with whisky
I down half a bottle of Maker’s Mark and you ask how it is I am able to do so with such ease
I tell you it isn’t difficult and it isn’t
I want to add that swallowing bitterness is much more pleasant on one's own terms but I do not say this part aloud
Instead I act like my insensitivity to alcohol is a skill not relevant to a family history of addiction
Built from uncles and fathers using liquid as a method to cauterize open flesh
A mechanism of numbing that has been passed down for years as casually as a recipe
We keep our secrets tacked onto hard labels and the inner caps of beer bottles
We antique our inheritance with the reminder that it has always been this way
This ability to drown myself under the weight of high content is nothing more than expectation
I make wine to water the moment it reaches my tongue
I convert drunken slurs to a language understood
I know sour breath more than I do mild
I didn’t learn drinking from beer pong and taking shots
I didn’t learn how to from games at parties and competition
I didn’t learn it as an activity or an outlet, I learned it as a habit turned routine
I was introduced to liquor with the same hand that walked me to school everyday
With the same lips that kissed me goodnight
This comprehension for the intoxicated soul is as engrained as my predisposition to become one
The only thing impressive about this relationship with alcohol will be how I choose to survive it,
Not all of us have.

Love will come to you when it's ready,
Not necessarily when you are.

There are leaves under my feet
The trampoline below us echoes our laughter into space
We are in our cheerleading uniforms jumping and jumping and
There are no boundaries in summer or winter or spring and autumn is our favorite
We **** on the roots of purple flowers because we can
Spend our 12 am sleepover restlessness and pocket change at the 711 down the street then
Sneak out to houses of boys who are too much older
We kiss them with juicy fruit mouths and sour tongues from joints we have just learned to smoke
We sacrifice lit paper to our ****** lips and run when our paranoia starts to catch up with us
The first time we drink, it is from our parents unlocked liquor cabinets, their trust for us more lenient than it should be
We swallow too much ***** mixed with orange pineapple juice and it tastes worse the second time around
We quickly learn to calculate how much is enough to send us spinning without emptying the contents of our stomachs
We stay up too late and too often because
There are too many movies to watch too many songs to hear too many memories to be made
I am 12 13 14 15 16
I am freckles and skinny and bitten cuticles and hot pink nails
I am poorly painted mascara and drugstore lipstick
I am football games and smoking bowls and crying from laughing too hard
I am ****** seasonal job and Halloween party and curved figure and first heartbreak
I am weekend adventure and aimless driving and snorting pills and loving strangers and touching bodies that aren't my own
I am reckless, we are
Too young to understand the consequences of our choices that will soon become mistakes
We make so many I forget to note them all down but
Haley's smile in a candid I use for my photography final freshman year is one I do not throw out
Instead I keep it locked in my mind, sitting against a black panel tucked away in my old bedroom
Hers was where we sat as we planned out our dreams for the future
Outlining our intentions on the ceiling above
Talking about who we wanted to kiss and then ****, we told each other too many details when we did
We wore bras that were too slow for the speed of our growing bodies
And black cat costumes to a party whose only theme was alcohol
We loved and got hurt and ate ice cream but mostly we loved
drinking, boys, smoking, cigarettes, each other
We were each other and still are but time and distance have both left tolls on our former relation
I am no longer the kid who never had a fear of heights
I don't jump as high as I used to when I do
I drink now with too much caution, I only take pills prescribed for me
We live on opposite coasts
And there are no leaves for me to step on where I am
Seasons do not change here and I am stuck on years I cannot forget
In a way we are still too young to understand most of what we don't but we still have time before we need to
It is winter again, then spring, then summer
My dear,
Autumn is approaching with patience and a slow speed
She is still our favorite.