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.

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