I never understood “made in God’s image” until I saw her.
Anyone who’s seen her has higher expectations for what heaven looks like.

We’re both sensitive enough to know what love feels like,
and reasonable enough to know that it can be broken.

The first time you use a new toothbrush is nothing like the first time you kiss a girl,
But I still love them both.

Her laugh is a paradox; an outsider would think she either just said the cleverest thing ever or she wishes she could retract it faster than it was said.
Only I know it’s simply because it’s beautiful. It’s easily my favorite language.

I have considered wearing a wiretap so I could go back and listen to all of our conversations again. And I hope that it picked up her heartbeat. She told me, it’s beating exactly like life should sound like.

She offers to iron any wrinkled clothes. I don’t have any. But I have a wrinkled heart.
I thought it was made into origami but it’s just a wadded ball that missed the wastebasket.

The way she dances to hip-hop shows her versatility,
yet you can tell she doesn’t do this every day; but she still dances.

I’m almost too nervous to hug her - knowing it will have to end.
Whenever I let go, I feel like I made a mistake.

Her voice trails off into silence,
like an hourglass that’s trying to hold itself together.

I like that “click-clack” of her boots.
It lets me know I’m next to someone really going places.

She goes to the mini mart with me even when she doesn't want to get anything,
besides more time together.

when you look into my eyes,
do you see her?
do you see the girl you fell in love with?
Or do you see a broken silhouette where she once was?
you could have made her stay you know.
you could have made her feel alive and wanted.
you could have made her love every inch of herself,
every fiber of her being you claimed to love in the beginning.
what changed that for you?
was it when you found out she was different?
found out she had scars deeper than the grand canyons valleys.
found out she was used merchandise.
found out, that no matter how hard you tried you couldnt erase the memories.
skin inked with distrust and abuse.
no empty canvas was left for your saving fingerprints.
no room to spill kindness and love,
no room for change.
so you, just like everyone else shes ever known,
left her.
you packed your bags and got out while you could.
if you only knew the envy she felt towards you.
You see, you could pick up everything and leave.
while her baggage comes with a lifetime guarantee,
weighed down by skeletons in her closet.
she can not escape.
You left her.
broken, vulnerable, and dying.
So when you looked at her you saw it didn't you?
saw what makes everyone leave eventually...
*you saw her

Who is this broken thing
Who holds her broken things
And dreams stuffed in a ***** handbag
Dangling from her fingertips
Where strips of skin have hardened
Like she has
Streaks of shame and fear
And tears coursing lines down her wrists
Thick with blood and grit
Where every scar tells of a heartbreak
Until she closed it all up
And broke all her stuff
And she cries sometimes
Does not see between the lines of sheet music
Notes played just for her
A special symphony of minor chords
The saddest chords there are
I hope she hears it one day
Forgets the shame and pain of it all
To know that even in sad chords there is beauty
And even the sad things can be loved

Tonight I cannot sleep
So come to me
Fill my head with dreams
Of love-making and risk-taking
Of your sweet hellos and tender goodbyes
Or better yet love
Be my dream
And never again will I need
The quiet comforts of sleep

I heard a cry in the night,
A thousand miles it came,
Sharp as a flash of light,
My name, my name!

It was your voice I heard,
You waked and loved me so—
I send you back this word,
I know, I know!

She was a peculiar
One
With a pep in
Her step
That no one
Had seen
Before

In a time when photos
Cost thirty-five cents
Her daddy would send her
To pose on rickety steps

With her hair done up
Like someone from the past
With her face punched up
In a way that would last

In the minds of her family
Echoing with a certain grace
Though they called her crazy
She always lit up the place

Not in the normal
Womanly way
But in an anti-formal
Odd sort of play