when we met, I was a walking corpse,
her lipstick like a mark on a map I couldn't see,
and our cigarette smoke clogged my throat,
but I figured it was better than tears
her body, another wall to drive myself into
just so I could never be clearheaded enough to remember you
but you were in every awkward silence, every insincere smile
so then, I shut my eyes and plunged in head first

and I did not resurface
for the longest time.

Her back like a sunset sitting crouched in a cold tub,
terrified and disillusioned. I watch her from the doorway,
unable to paint over her purples, yellows, and blues.
I watch her trembling deer legs tumble over the linoleum
and all I can think of is that last thing he said to her as
she slipped away.

"How could we have disappointed each other this much?"

I was there, watching her petals wilt, her body slipping into
a vase for him every night in the bar as he looked at a simpering
Los Angeles girl over his beer glass.

Sometimes love comes in like the roll of a fresh spring breeze
over a mountain, sometimes it's like a knife twisting in your
gut, but sometimes love can make you believe he's worth
tearing yourself up.

I pulled her up from the bathtub, crumpled and wilted and tired
and heartbroken. I brushed away the tears and smudged eyes,
and let California's sunshine shimmer on her skin, I opened
all the windows in the world for her,

just to let the right love in, to sweep up the insecurities,
and only leave strength in its place,

and as she tried to thank me, I put my hand on her
heart and said, "You've got two eyes, two legs, two arms,
but only one heart. And someone out there has the pair."
I held her hand to my heart, "But that pair will stop beating
then moment you let yours stop."

And I watched her wash her face, and heal the bruises,
her smile returned and wobbled, and finally I stopped
looking into mirrors to remember what pounded so steadily
and so strongly in my chest.

Dreams are like suitcases going through the baggage check, heavy and
easily lost. "We traded in our princes for frogs", a drunk woman says
hanging off her stool as she slowly drowns herself with cheap tequila
and ***** softly on a lime. I pretend not to hear her, I refocus my eyes
on the sports game and swallow an ocean of tears.

I touch him every night like I'm a flame, soft and hot- I turn
over the equator and the continents hiding in our sofa cushions.
I reach out for his arms like bands of steel keeping all my rioting
colors and shapes inside of me.

"We are at a very progressive time", they say on the news, I flip
through more news media articles about the economy, America's
bowed out again early. "For our generation", I tell them, "there is no
after party", and no one listens. There is someone playing the piano
near the bar and I'm hoping to never hear from Billy Joel again.

He comes home, his shoulders like rows strumming me through
the cold, quiet galaxy- and for that moment, I am not American,
or female or any social media label-

I am human and alive, and I'm beating down every door
until my suitcases are given back to me- empty or not.

"He's beautiful. "
Wrapped in a sick sense of despair,
did I ever have the courage to ever to fully care?
I walk through freezing lakes and storms outside
to trek the across the dirt and rivers and find
Did I ever love a person besides?
I touchdown on the moon, on the stars
on the castles built on dreams in my mind,
the shattered heart, the tortured soul
bemoans jealousy and a cowardice untold
I am here, sitting in the plum blossom
of winter's breast,
and something about the way the cold wind tugs
so hard so strong against my chest
leaves me without no doubts
that love isn't quite done with me yet.