Storms.
I like storms.

Sometimes they start slow
with ominous, cadaverous clouds,
slowly rolling, tumultuous.
A few drops of rain,
frigid and fresh,
speaking in a pattering argot on my roof.
Calm, soft rain.
Rain that lulls me to sleep.

Sometimes they are fast and sweet.
An ephemeral rush of raindrops,
mellow cannonades of thunder,
trees still verdant,
green against gray.

Sometimes they are hot and volatile
with lightning so bright
it hurts my eyes,
thunder that roars
and permeates the quiet.
The wind screams,
rain batters my windows.

These are the nights I do not sleep.
I sit, thrilled,
listening to the primitive barrage,
the aphotic chaos,
remembering that this is how it feels
to be alive.

my heart is paper
and I have no eraser
to rid it of your words
so there they'll stay, I suppose
they sound nice together
my heartbeat and your words

a fatigue that fogs the mind,
shackles that shake the soul,
someone has smeared purple-light shadows
around your eyes,
and your teeth are a whitewashed wall
between you and the world.
your footsteps say "cold fingers,
late-night poet, not enough time."
not enough time to drive to the city,
not enough time to burn your house down,
to jump off a bridge and let the water
envelop you: a quiet, cold cocoon.
your breaths say "warm lips,
sunrise philosopher, too much time."
too much time to contemplate your worth,
too much time to count to a thousand,
to let dust settle on your skin and
seep into your blood; you are stagnant.
you let yourself wither away:
arrhythmic adolescence.
your jaundice clouds your judgment
as you watch the birds fly free.
you have a thirst,
a longing need
to rip the chains from your chest
to run until your feet pound
with the heartbeat of the earth,
until your eyes sting and water,
until your lungs burn
and your breath runs hot,
until you have the acrid iron taste
of blood on your tongue.
it's the necessity of intangible freedom.
you seek liberation and validation
and the two walk a pace ahead of you,
hand in hand.
monotony weighs you down.
it drags your feet deep into
the mire, the trap.
your half hellos are a plea for help,
behind those pretty eyes
lies a slowly smoldering panic.
you kiss change with all you've got,
press your mouth right against
what you seek
and what you fear.
change won't kiss back;
it never does.
the mutterings of your mind seem to say
"darling, you'll die this way."
what is there to do?
listen, artist.
hear the noise of the weather
and the sounds of the sea.
taste life.
let the flavor of being coat your tongue.
touch, and feel.
run your fingers through sea foam,
scald yourself on a match,
hold handfuls of earth,
sense life in everything; everything is alive.
your chains appear ironclad
and your prison walls cold,
but grasp tightly to sunshine,
fill your mouth with fresh rain.
you'll make it out okay,
out of your head.
you'll live love, dear.

She wants to fall in love,
but not with someone, no.
She wraps her arms around her body,
buries her face in her sleeves.
She smells like citrus;
she used too much soap.

She wants to love her throat
and her thighs
and her knees
and her mouth.

She gasps and sighs and screams sometimes
and spit oozes from between her lips.
She tried to ***** into the bushes
but as soon as she felt her stomach heave,
she gave up.

She wants to love her toes
and her collarbones
and her elbows
and her wrists.

A history book made her cry today,
and so did chocolate chip cookies.
She sweat and sweat
and scraped her hands
and her shower water was too cold.

She wants to love her calves
and her nose
and her spine
and her hips.

She hates the feeling of gagging
and she's afraid of pain
but not blood.
Her hair is all damp
and she chews on her cheeks.

She wants to love her voice
and her ribs
and her teeth
and her palms.

She likes a boy she shouldn't
and she wants to write poems on his skin,
but she has a math test on Wednesday
and that will hurt worse.

She wants to love her cheekbones
and her shoulders
and her jaw
and her stomach.

She really wants to love herself,
she really, really does.
I just don't think that she tries
very hard.

Took a walk in the rain.
Green trees and gray skies.
Spring and winter made love.

When she tiptoes in the attic
the boards creak and groan
and give her away.
When she sits and reads
by the stained-glass window
the dust settles on her
shoulders and her hair.
When she sleeps she talks
about things she cannot remember
when she wakes.
When she reaches for a hand to hold
cobwebs stick to her damp fingers.
She doesn't look in the mirror
for she is afraid
of what she'll see.
She doesn't smile or laugh.
She doesn't cry.

Her hair:
  is the wind itself, a tumbling, wild,
  beautiful thing, soft through my
  fingers like the leaves of a tree
Her eyes:
  are candles; soft, glimmering candles
  that light a dark room, that beckon
  and call with mischievous warmth
Her lips:
  they are like holly berries in winter;
  bright red and sweet, hidden behind
  leaves and concealed under frost
Her smile:
  is the sun breaking through the
  clouds on a gloomy day, splintering
  into rays and touching the earth
Her skin:
  is the paper on which she writes her
  story with bruises and ballpoint
  pens and smudged red lipstick
Her touch:
  it is an electric shock, a paint-
  brush to my art, like raindrops
  falling onto my arms and face
Her voice:
  is the ocean crashing against the
  shore, wind chimes tinkling in the
  breeze, a sigh, a gasp, a sonata
Her laugh:
  is joy; a piece played on a fiddle in
  the middle of a cobblestone square
  while people dance jubilantly to it
Her words:
  are written in cursive on my mind, a
  beautiful, tragic poem, an unfinished
  sentence in her lovely handwriting
Her love:
  is a warm blanket in the winter, a
  mug of hot tea; like jumping into the
  cold, salty ocean; it is a lightning strike,
  a drunken state from which I cannot
  escape, a blissful euphoria
Her destiny:
  is not mine; it is far away on a
  train somewhere with a camera and
  a map and a touch of apprehension;
  it is my quiet house and my cold,
  empty bed and lonely, broken soul