"Define life," he said, "In under seven words."
Several gave their answers,
cold and scientific, their wavering hands,
hoping for good reputations.

I had an answer.
The word leapt to my lips,
struggled to part them,
but I clenched my teeth to hold it back.

"Love." My heart whispered.
"We have not life,  if we have not love."

But love is not in the textbook.

I was 17,
when we discussed workout routines in gym,
thin legs branching from ruby-red shorts,
skin pale and dappled in winter air.
I described my workout of 200's.
200 crunches, 200 sit-ups, etc. etc. etc.
"You make me feel fat,"
my model- built friend complained.

I stared down at my shrinking thighs,
wondering how fat she would feel,
with hollow spaces beneath her skin,
numbed by the gnawing of metabolism on muscle.
If she could feel her labored breaths circulate
through drained limbs,
and saw the stars and sparks in the haze of exhaustion,
that perpetuated around me.
If she shivered
walking home in without a coat in December
simply because
Cold burned more calories than warm.  

At 17, I learned
Electric blankets were invented for asylum patients
so they wouldn't freeze when they were lain outside
to get fresh air.
I shivered under mine in a warm house--
strangled by three layers of hoodies,
a morbidly comical scene-- the skeletal inmate cowering
in masses of cotton
and still cold.

The skeleton in the mirror had no eyes,
Only its bloated stomach stared back at me.
Forget the thigh-gap,
the stomach was the only thing that mattered.
It should be as flat as the unleavened bread
I refused at communion:
I didn't know how many calories it had.

I was 17,
when the word "beauty" fell from my vocabulary.  
Lank, unwashed hair hung limp to hide the
Inflamed scratches on my face: feeble efforts to eradicate
the hatred, guilt, over two extra bites,
and what I had become.
Here I was, in all my gollum-like, two by four perfection:
except the stomach.
That ****** bloated *****
I wished I could tear it from my body,
Throw it aside to rot on the heap
of moulding high-school dreams
I kept in the corner of my room.

But it remained, day after day,
the stubborn thing stayed on,
even when filled with saltwater,
to force it to give up the last bit of its contents.
Three mugs, and several tablespoons later
it finally relinquished,
in the emergency room,
as my mother stood
holding my hair and crying.
I still thought she was over-reacting.

I looked up at the ER doctor,
middle aged and blonde,
her eyes were sympathetic, but annoyed,
As she asked me if I was trying to **** myself.
"No," I said. Not Yet I thought,
I heard my dry throat crack with the words,
"I have an eating disorder."

The gentle pull on my waist as sleep left your body.
The steady stare as the alcohol and lust consumed you.
Your strong and firm kiss when you could not convince me that you loved me more.
The unabated honesty as you confessed that I'm your Daisy Buchanan, and she's our Tom.
The look of sorry deep within your tired blue eyes.
The way you say coffee and hockey and my name.
When you talk about our kids and our home and your job and our future and us.
The anger when you think about him or her or it.
The gentle pecks on my forehead and fingers through my hair and interlaced fingers.
And when you let me in and let me look through the window to your heart.

cure yourself by finding another boy, one who wants to hold
your fingers as you lose yourself in flaxen
starlights.
cure yourself by singing until your throat chafes
like sandpaper.
cure yourself by telling yourself that you are the moon,
and the moon is you, and she is laughing with you,
shining for you, waiting for you to glimmer.
cure yourself by finding the right people, the ones who
grasp you with splintered paws and souls
searching for whatever tastes like bubblegum.
darling, you won’t be cured right away,
take it day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute,
don’t forget to watch the sun
rise, to smell the coffee with shaky fingers.
cure yourself by watching the cream dance with the
shadows.
bruises are only
temporary.

I am a white, Jewish girl from Florida.
Hit me.
Hit me with your white girl jokes,
Your Jewish American Princess stereotypes.
I will giggle and squeal right along with you.
Because yeah,
I do order white chocolate mocha frappuchinos from Starbucks,
I Instagram pictures of my nails,
I take selfies, whiten my teeth, straighten my hair,
Shop at Forever21 and drink Naked Juice like it is my job.
Yeah, my daddy buys me things,
I don’t pay for my data plan,
There’s no way in hell I would drive a sedan,
I wear Nike shorts and avoid any nearby cameraman,
And let me tell you, I love jamming out to old school Britney Spears.
Hit me one more time, because none of that means I am any less intelligent,
Any less diligent,
Any less likely to face judgment
Than any other slice of diversity around me –
I am a white, Jewish girl
My nose is not its own cartoon,
I eat bagels (but I absolutely hate lox),
I’m not tan or even the least bit tinted,
And god knows I don’t wear Uggs.
Tell me I need to get married young,
Major in business,
Wear clothes that leave me airless,
Get some of that European gracefulness,
But don’t tell me I’m dumb.
Don’t tell me I’m not thoughtful.
I’m a white girl.
Take a glance at my resourcefulness,
Understand my goals of being ambitious,
Get rid of your own stereotype-inducing cockiness,
And notice me in all of my flawlessness.
Because I am a white girl,
And I am unique, strong, inventive,
Empowered, passionate, adventurous,
Indomitable, unbeatable.
I am an individual –
Not part of some whole that you put me in to stabilize your mold,
Not the example of a societally scatterbrained ***** meant to be your centerfold,  
Not a previously worn-out piece of clothing thrown to the gutter unsold,
Rather a human being of my own rules and my own morals
A human being with ideas and intelligence and power,
A white, Jewish girl,
A person.

William Shakespeare: playwright and poet
My absolute favorite of all time
The master of words in plays and sonnets
Unappreciated during his prime
His comedies still make us laugh today
Who could forget The  Taming  of  the  Shrew?
Now it's told in a much different way
A movie: The  Ten  Things  I  Hate  About  You
People think of his many tragedies
Othello,  Romeo  and  Juliet
We still feel their sorrow; weak at the knees
We cry for the Prince of Denmark:  Hamlet.
"But soft! What light through yonder window break?"
The work of a legend those words do make!

I hate waiting
but I wait for you.
I'm staring out of the glass pane
into the night
hoping that each set of taillights
maybe belong to you?
(I'm silly)
I know if you were going to be here,
you would have done so ten minutes ago
but it's 10:25
and I don't want to go to bed
quite yet;
I keep hoping you'll show up,
breathless with apologies.
(silly)
It's 10:30; I'm in bed.