you are red lipstick stains on white wine glasses
and the pale blue smoke
of a cigarette

the hot tang of fruit perfume
and sticky, sloppy kisses

graph paper, ballpoint pens, coffee with milk,
Christmas lights, *****, socks

you're ice cubes in hot tea and
boots in the snow and lace curtains
and most of all you're slow, uninhibited
conversations at 2am

you are laughter and candles and
I'll never be cold again

and your eyes aren't quite one color
and they aren't quite another
but they sure are lively
and they sure are bright

I want you and a pile of blankets and
a rhythm of raindrops on the roof

and we'll pretend to hate domesticity
while we cook food together and
work on chemistry

well, I've spent a long time hating
myself and a lot of time trying to fix
what I now know wasn't broken

but when I've got the soft dizziness
of an alcohol stupor and a handful
of your hair and you tell me I feel
"right," it's easy to forget that I was
ever so sad

It's easier to breathe.

on the floor there is
a parka and
a pair of snow-bitten boots
a hat, a scarf, mittens
all frosted over
a cozy old sweater
a flannel
woolen socks and
another pair of socks
for good measure
a long-sleeved shirt
and jeans
and leggings
and everything is blizzard cold
and your hair's undone
and the temperature in the room
goes up by increments
of five
my heartbeat flutters and
maybe, just maybe
you'll open up to me
and then your underwear join
the ridiculous melee
on the floor
and once again
you are undressed
but not naked

fingernails black like pupils and
eyelids sticky like manzanita flowers and
tongue heavy like a down pillow and
cheeks rosy like cherry pie and
brain fuzzy like a dying fire

my mouth is golden and sour
and sweet and chocolate
my lungs are full and empty
and laughinglaughinglaughing

a trampoline full of dead leaves and
I jump and jump and fall
and almost throw up but
I don't

I'm wild and I could run away
and scream and laughlaughlaugh
I'm tired and I could lie down
and kiss and sleepsleepsleep

I like it
I like it a lot
where are my problems?
gonegonegone
I'm happy giddy living
and Harry Potter's on the TV

it's easier to love myself
like this and
you can be **** sure
I'm making a good milkshake
again

I sat on a curb in a parking lot,
surrounded by friends,
eating cheap Thai takeout.
I looked and saw my legs
expand against the rough concrete.
"I have fat thighs" I say.
"so?" he says.
"all girls do"
But he is not right
I have seen girls with slim,
willowy thighs that do not even touch.
There are girls with smooth hard thighs
that do not jiggle or tremble
thighs that have lines and shape.
Backstage one night, in a dress
that made my breathing come short,
I complained about its tightness,
blamed it on myself.
She laughed and said
"god, I would **** to be as skinny as you"
Truthfully,
I do not know what I look like
I know an ever-changing image
trapped in cold glass
and soft pale pieces
that conform to my touch
but I have never seen myself,
not really,
and I never will.
So I won't ever know,
no, not really,
how I appear to others.
"you're too pretty for that"
Am I too pretty for the
sticky lips and swollen eyes?
"how do you stay so thin?"
I'm on a great new diet
it's called 'I hate myself'
"I wish I looked like you!"
but god, do you know how it feels?
how each second is self-conscious
--more; it's self hatred
how sustenance is a numbers game
how your friends laugh
when you order a salad
("oh my god, really? again?")
and how it cuts right to the very center
of what makes you human and whole.
You wish you looked like me?
I wish I knew what I looked like.

She sat next to me
on a hill by the sea,
under the shade
of an old aspen tree.

We sat hand in hand,
watched waves caress sand,
when she turned with bright eyes
and she made her demand.

It was light in the sky
and the birds fluttered by,
but my heart remained cold
and I didn't know why.

Like a story she told:
"If I may be so bold,
I just ask that you love me,"
her voice sounded cold.

My words whispered now,
I spoke shame like a vow,
confessed best I could
that I didn't know how.

It was bare on that hill
with us both lacking will;
she recited a poem,
I remember it still.

So I pondered love,
cast my eyes up above
and I realized I didn't
know anything of.

There were no words to say,
so she walked away,
and alone by the sea
is where forever I'll stay.

I sleep on white bed sheets
with the windows open
so the breeze can brush my face
and the rain can fall on my lips.
I sleep in the gray half-light that
washes the color from my walls.

My skin is bare, fingers tangled in
the blankets, hair drying in the
same air that dries the dew
off of the leaves.

Get drunk on dreams
crumple the sheets
ice packs and underwear
poetry, bracelets, books.

I sleep with tearstained cheeks
swollen eyes and a runny nose
and bite marks in my mouth.
I sleep with a heavy heart
and fingertips on fire.

Dizzy, fuzzy eyesight
and fantastic scenarios
played out like film in my head.

I sleep in the warmest
and coldest room of my house.
I sleep under quilts and blankets
curled up against the cold,
and I sleep naked
with the air warm against my skin.

I always sleep with a book
at my bedside
and the drapes opened
so I can see the stars.

I sleep through sunsets and sunrises
and lightning that cracks open the sky.
I sleep through delicate snowstorms
and hazy summer smoke.

I sleep by myself
and I seize the quiet
as a moment of my own,
not shared
not secret.

I sleep for life and rebirth
and tranquility,
for peace and second chances.
I sleep for mornings.

"****."
She says through a mouthful of cigarette smoke and hair. She has bitten open her lip again, and it bleeds.
This is not unusual; blood is her own scarlet lipstick. Breaking skin is a nervous habit she just can't shake.
But she laughs it off, pushes dark hair out of a pale face. Her eyes are as gray as the winter sky.
We stand under the eaves of a dilapidated old restaurant. The sign has read CLOSED for at least six years. It's not raining but it might as well be. The air chills my open eyes.
It's mostly quiet.
She smokes.
I write.
When she breaks the silence I listen reverently. She talks of little things, anecdotes I can't resist.
She thinks philosophy is *******.
One time she spat out her toothpaste and it was ******.
She hates her freckles.
(I think they are stars on her skin.)
She had to dissect a baby pig once and she doesn't eat meat anymore.
She has broken the law twenty-two times.
She keeps count.
I don't ask her questions because I know she won't answer. Something stops her answers in her throat.
She laughs often.
She is not happy, though.
There is a distinct heaviness about her persona. It's the air of a frequently-exploited soul. I am filled with a vicarious sadness when I am with her.
I wonder if perhaps I am siphoning some of her sadness and if maybe she feels a bit lighter.
I don't know.
It does begin to rain. She is in love with rainy days. I hope it brings her peace.
She gazes at the rain as though she can feel each droplet seeping into the ground, her soul.
I gaze at her the same way.