the curves on my
frame are the lines of
a sketch bent slightly
too far; i'm an awkward
angle in geometry
class no one dares to
find and this tiny black

dress is revealing too
much in too little
time. the whispers of
crisscrossed marked
thighs and starry knees
swirl before me and i'm

gone, disconnected. they say
black is slimming but
i've never felt more
potent and i hope
to god no one can see
right through me.

formal dances aren't
ideal for the invisible.

THE PAWN-SHOP man knows hunger,
And how far hunger has eaten the heart
Of one who comes with an old keepsake.
Here are wedding rings and baby bracelets,
Scarf pins and shoe buckles, jeweled garters,
Old-fashioned knives with inlaid handles,
Watches of old gold and silver,
Old coins worn with finger-marks.
They tell stories.

We’ve all seen them….
The people with the glazed over eyes
        Stuck halfway in that world
                   And halfway in this
Their clothing still covered in grave dust
         From the skeletons they wrestled with all through the night.

“We have history,” they say
         But now it’s a fairytale
                   And they can’t let go….

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art! -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No -yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever -or else swoon to death.

I'm quirky, I'm nerdy,
I'm short and I'm curvy,
I always feel a little chilly;
is that just me?

My voice always cracks,
my homework sometimes stacks,
I don't dot every i or cross every t;
is that just me?

I cry when I'm happy,
my clothes are a little shabby,
my bedroom isn't always clean;
is that just me?

My books are a bit battered,
my thoughts are scattered,
I sing off key;
is that just me?

I stutter when I talk,
there's always a limp in my walk,
I laugh so hard I can't breathe;
is that just me?

Sometimes I feel like I'm not enough,
but I have friends who show their love,
my life is like a happy dream;
is that just me?

I like to hold people's hands,
and cuddle in football stands,
sometimes I act a little silly;
is that just me?

We might be somewhat the same,
we may even share the same name,
but no one else, I guarantee,
can be anything just like me.