Women like me
tear their hair out
over things like this--
calories in peanut butter
the bit that’s left on the spreading knife
after your sandwich is stacked and sliced in four neat triangles
(you already dipped the corners in bleach)
Blood in your toilet bowl
from vomiting too passionately
your esophagus is eating itself up
(you don’t go to the doctor, you don’t even tell your mother)
A clogged kitchen sink
the disposal blades wound tightly
with the spaghetti you poured out like tight little worms
(you blame your roommates for the mess)
And the quiet ache of every muscle
that refuses to relax
when all you want to do is sleep.

My love,
you are a rose in a locked room
with antique furniture
and curtains that cover windows, half-open.
They are stained yellow from years of sun
and cigarette smoke.
You rooted yourself here to protect your petals from grubby hands
that wanted to pry you outward
and color your thorns red.

A sparrow calls out, and you turn toward the sun
that makes itself known in bright stripes.
The light causes you to gleam brilliantly
despite the dust,
despite the silence,
despite the fear that you wear
like a winter tarp.

Your first instinct is to reach out and join
the light and the birdsong,
but you remain
because your stem is brown and splintered.
And anyway,
only this room knows your name.

Becoming vulnerable is like
skinning an orange that is unsure
of its own ripeness.

Two anxious women sit across the table from each other
interrupted by two dishes of food,
two glasses of water,
and six utensils resting on paper napkins.
One thinks to herself,
“Is this sickness?”
the other,
“I am the sickest.”
The sick picks up her fork and licks the tines,
preparing it for a bite that will never arrive in her mouth.
The sickest folds her arms across her chest
and pushes her dish away with her eyes
and they sit in silence
with loud eyes and trembling hands
willing their fear to disappear.

Today I woke up with holes in my hand,
the stigmata of a failed human
who tried to starve her way to divinity.

These hollows are heaven’s rejection letters
spelled out in limp flesh
and dried blood.

When my mouth begs for water,
these hands cannot scoop up a single drop
from life’s grand wells.
And anyway, my mouth was sewn up long ago.

I hold both hands outward, towards the light.
They do not warm, they only burn,
and anyway, I cannot see the light
through frosted eyes.

My fingers hang from their spreading base
and cannot find the strength to fold
along their stiff hinges.
And anyway, my skin tightens like ice.

All that remains is fractured bone
and sea-green veins
that spread like spider’s legs
strong on a broken loom.

I cannot create if I cannot breath,
the pen’s ink separates like stolen air
drawn through a sieve.

Creation breeds life, endless drops of life,
but I shut that door on myself
and it’s still jammed in its latch.

The oxygen around me hides in small corners
and speaks in a whisper,
“you do not tempt me.”

Blank pages read like foreign print
and speak in ancient tongues,
unheard and unread.

The Modern Moon turns away
from us,
betrayal stinging her eyes
like venom.
She hides behind dark clouds
and waits for mercy to rise
and clear her mind, while she dreams
of majesty.

The love plant on my night table
oozes its green slime,
reaching out to my bed with its finger-vines.
It offers me a tendril, promising a new taste,
something foreign and fresh,
a primer for love.

I let out a morning sigh
and coil a generous vine around my index finger
like a ring,
but I do not feel the ache of possession
like the silver band in my jewelry box
offered me.

If the plant could speak,
it would whisper softly,
“you do not need anyone
to make you complete.”
I dab my finger in its thick jelly
and **** hard,
swallowing its sweetness.
It tastes like a beginning.