This morning was not a morning. An evening, perhaps.

Noon on a long, dark day.

From the top of the tallest building I watched the sun rise,

or what was supposed to be it.

Staring intensely at the greyness, my hands shaking on my rain-splattered knees.

This morning I stretched out, glamorous and lazy, planning to be purposefully late. Dismissive and smiling. What real life?

I took my time, browsing through my thoughts and movements carefully and deliberately. Washed my hair in the sink for the fun and dirt of it. I still didn’t feel quite tired enough. I spoke with clarity and wit, despite the crusts caked over the leftover sparkles in my eyes.

nestled in this husk of half-light, we Are.
you so very
hauntingly swift and strong and me —
so pantingly still.
gripping.
swinging into rest atop rumpled fabrics
smoothing down far
far into this suspended night’s end.
rising we Are to this blue darkness
through which lurks
forever.

The crack and crash of tree limbs
signaled nothing to me yet -
I did not see him, fearsome head of Death,
stalking to where the boy lay, screaming.

There was a wall of stone,
a pale whip of chain link and
a splash below.
We were young and reckless and
there, in the morbid glory of it,
pushing through the trees.

I snapped out of it once they closed the black bag.
I climbed up the rock and
Daddy, Daddy, carry me down the mountain.
Take me back across the sea.

In the deep hollows of an abandoned mineshaft,
poised under the giant reaching claws of ancient
machinery,
I found love.

At the top of the tunnel it was summer.
The aspens rustled their little dollop leaves at us;
the dirt under our feet ran down the mountain before us;
and the wind swept away the scent of us.
Into the trees, perhaps into space,
all the way to wherever our thoughts lay nestled close,
nearly touching.

Love is in the woods, he said.
True Love and True Nature
are the only things
we can always access,
no matter how far,
no matter how long ago.

i know that i am how i am because of my eyes
and what they are saying.
dark, they are, stretched and translucent --
my blues are pulsing in and out of greens
and greys
my eyes, they droop wistfully, as if
to say "i am alone, all alone here, only i know what this is and will be"

fingertips. to fingertips.
i move my face in closer, so slowly and slowly still,
and i exhale.
my lips are dry and flaking, sliding
over hostile teeth and stinging jaw.
that bone whose vibrations claw back, back into my head, the
sharp hurt, the crash, the dull aftershocks. and i keep moving.
ignoring the animal groan of my heart, my
quickening heart, rattling frantically round my
ribcage, looking for a way
(any way, please, any way at all)
to get outside. it is smothering in
this dank and musty room. my

ribs scream shrilly to my spine, "forget!"
forget all it knows
especially this --

and my eyes. black and cavernous.
my sad eyes.
too weary, too hopeless, to do anything but
wilt
shrivel and
stare in disappointment.

today, i saw

a million things that used to be.

i saw the pavement breathing hard in the mist of

rain, tears filling the dark spaces and the

cracks, where

so much water once welled up and ruined e ver y thing.

what i had to do was:

listen to the coolness,

that unseasonable pressure on the points of

my desolate cheekbones. feel

my eyelashes just brush my skin,

and in between looking i had to see,

and in between seeing i had to look.

things were just fine,

it           is                  okay.

we see the shine and sparkle of tall buildings and we are all tempted

to forget the slap of bodies against water and pavement, the hopeless way that

people curled up and died.

But if you look closely, if you turn your

head away from the sun and look out

across the crystal city, more clear than ever, if you open your eyes —

you will see that today,

the pavement is crying.

as we sat &

turned around each other

i touched your face &

told you the news



you cut away from me

crying

we are red jacket crew,          we are belated petunias.
and we are the shining inside-outs
left over from the cold grass
and the speed signs.


we pried Jesus apart from His plastic casing
we sat up on his China cross…
…waited…

you were still in bed
for once
the hairspray and the black paint from last night
crept up beneath my skin

i remember you, little earthquake
and all those dark nights trembling together
that was my favorite season.
you and i, we handled each other like
porcelain and that made things awkward most of the time.
but -- thrillingly so.
you first showed me the right way to gather a girl's curves against my own
so that they lined up right and smooth
and how feminine vertebrae just feel so much silkier and
more pleasant under the fingertips.
i wish i could open my eyes one more time to your
head under my ear and your lips (the prettiest lips)
relishing the weight
of my name on them: "lady."
hey, about that time i touched you --
sorry for startling you.
and sorry for backing down so easily.
i wish we could have shown each other
even more of what it means to
feel girls and to
feel like a girl, finally a real girl.

After so many nights pressed against the solid square of you, I felt geometry everywhere. The clock, that devil circle, cut out piece by piece, the triangles laid out in the way of us. Under my feet, red brick swayed back and forth in broken rectangles, bringing me closer with each step. And there were spheres - the suns you sent me from up north, the bulbs of unripe blossoms. Each day is a line. The length of them varies but the thickness does not. Each morning I wake up to trudge through the same murk. Take me to the ribbon and I will cut it and break through, landing on the flat of my back on your hardwood floor and never moving from that divine plane again.

Never am I more shining & alive
than when your eyes widen, to take in
every pale square of my skin
& you smile (oh that way you smile)
one second before you kiss me.

we collided under the wet-paper smell of the moon, threaded through the black grass.

there were no stars to see us, wild and crying;

i was cold for the first time in my life that night.

the moon’s color was our color, and we shined

icy bright, cycling and spinning through the wind like

so many machine parts and restless breaths.

we are so strange and perfect.

so bleak and so breathtaking.

shoot me.

shock me.

kiss me.

**** me.

i have separated myself into such disturbing places, such

dark corners,

the air sparkles with fresh beauty every time i come out to breathe.

and this is not home, there are no stars,

but each moment sees me more alive, and glad.

i am not whole.

my palms
have melted away. flesh
forever bonded to your burning skin.

my lips
are gone. i left them against yours;
they couldn’t bear to come away with me.

my elbows
can’t work. they are too crooked.
stuck around the shape of your shoulders,
an empty hollow only you could fill.

(and with each stroke of your fingers down my back my skin tore away like tissue paper clinging to your static touch so it would never fade away)

my hips
move awkwardly now. they lack
your hips and hands to steer them.
they are confused and broken.

my tongue
***** uselessly. scorched by your taste.
numb to every flavor.

my eyes
wheel pointlessly in their sockets
haunted by your laughing face.

(and when you locked your fingers between mine oh! my poor fingers! they snapped off just to stay a while)

here i am. the rest of me.
some old shredded pile of skin and black bone.
tears dripping silently in gaping pathetic mouth.

(i said “now don’t you let me leave” and you didn’t, you have me still)

i need my pieces back
(i need you)

Poor young thing.
***** carpet, ***** face, ***** feelings in this place.
Poor young thing can't help but cry,
"Stick a needle in my eye."
Empty bed, empty room, waiting for an empty tomb.
Empty even with her in it.
Poor young thing -
nowhere to go, nowhere to stay, can't stand to live another day.
Poor young thing.

i had a cut on my shin that day, and i could feel the salt digging into it with sharp fingers as the whole of the ocean licked at my kneecaps. there were goosebumps up my thighs,



down my shoulders




my winter skin fell against the ash of the horizon near-seamlessly. his was no different. we



huddled together in the blues and the greys, saltwater in our bellybuttons, cold wet hands grasping cold wet backs and shoulders, the heat of his breath threaded around my curls and dove



down into the cavity between our chests.




he was skinny and shivering, and i and i and




i was trying to steam clean him with my loving palms, smooth the wrinkles out of his deflated heart and open him up and climb inside.

dear i know. don’t you
miss
i have heard a real picture,
a lie,
a don’t-intend-on (times one milllion)
, very unbecoming
dessert wine // strange sweaters
It is the exact same proportions as what’s missing in my day-to-day.
it’s quitethemess and it was                      beautiful.

a small thing, aged 6, has small knees
braced in terror against the wall and one small hand
gripping the towel rack above its small head
and there is someone stronger about - he hears the noises of the small thing
from far away and
he is annoyed.
because the small thing is misbehaving.
making a scene. it has to shut up or the neighbors will hear.
small thing, aged 6, hears heavy footsteps of someone stronger stalking the hallway,
searching for it,
flexing his broad, dark hands so
small thing, aged 6, tries to choke down its screams and
tries to cram itself into the farthest corner or
cover itself with its fine, blonde hair, but
someone stronger sniffs out the small thing’s small hand on the towel bar and
brings it down from the wall with one heavy gesture.
small thing, aged 6, is crying for forgiveness with small hiccups
but someone stronger has no patience for small things.
someone stronger is moving quickly, back into the hallway,
a small thing thrashing in his grip.
someone stronger likes to make noises with his hands and sometimes,
small things get in the way.
sometimes,
small thing’s small body hangs from its small arm
hanging from someone stronger’s horrible hands
floating up, away from the carpet (or tile or bed).
someone stronger likes to throw his weight around but sometimes,
his own is not enough so he uses the weight of a small thing, too.
someone stronger likes the sounds of snaps and cracks.
small thing, aged 6, once had a mother who loved it
but this time, the small thing’s mother is
downstairs where someone stronger left her, and she is
angry with everything and
putting her shoes on to drive to the doctor.