I like my dark orange hair,
the way it hangs low beneath my shoulders
and drapes down my spine.  
I like how it looks in braids.  
I like how pretty my toes look when I wear scarlet polish.
I like how tiny my ankles are.
I like having a little waist
and how it tilts to one side.
I like how cute I feel with my face naturally
and I like my round nose.
I like the way my teeth look
after I have Oreos and coffee in the morning.  
I like my spidery fingers and my baby wrists.  
I like how dainty they look when I play piano.  
I like how they look with chipped nail polish.  
I like my body
I like the uneven scatter of bones and ridges,
like when the plates under the sea collide and rise.
Pretty words make the negatives desirable.
I like these things today.

You used to like untangling my braids and bobby pins.  
You loved it when my knees were just draped over yours.
You said you liked the way my skin looked porcelain over your sun kissed legs.  
You'd kiss every freckle and define my gentle jaw with your lips.  
You never called me beautiful,
you were more creative,
more artistic than that.  
You hid poetry around the apartment,
under chairs,
on window sills and my favorite,
in empty pockets for me to find when we weren't home together.
You'd hide the best ones underneath the floorboards, for only us to find.  
As long as those words were hidden, so were we.  
Your favorite place to hide is in the kitchen masked by flour and spices,
waiting for me to find you.  
And your favorite place to find me is running the bathwater among lit candles.

You’re frightened but, there is no need for fear.
Your eyes are barely open.
Your vision is blurred beneath your thickened lashes.
Blinded, you are.
Hazed, you are.
Sick, you are.
Lying on the minted tile floor,
back arched and your cheek pressed to a faded rug,
you roll on your side.
Tilting your head up, you moan.
The vicious pulse begins pounding your wounded head.
You roll again on your shrunken stomach,
bubbling over with an ocean of alcohol.
You drag your eyes up to the piercing light above you.
Adjusting yourself slowly,
your hands fumble for the floor beneath you.
The muscles in your arm strain as you push yourself to sit.
No strength.
The stained bathtub provides something stable to grasp.
Smeared makeup.
Hair stuck to your hollow face.
Memories scattering in the wind outside.
More pounding, but this time it isn’t in your head.
It’s booming outside the door.
Screaming and movement is caving in on you,
suffocating you.  
Who’s outside?
  What’s outside?

"It's okay”, he says “You’re fine now.”  
You turn and stare.
How long has he been here?  
He’s been watching you the entire time.
He knows something.
He’s done something to you.
That’s why your in this frightening room below the ground.
He stands and walks towards you.
You must stay strong.
Don’t flinch.
No weakness.
A gentle arm glides just under your leg
and the other behind your waist.
He lifts you up and a small whimper escapes your lips.
There’s pain.
He carries you into a familiar room through another door.
The pounding from outside grows softer.
Shoulders relax.
Forehead cools.
Sleepiness comes.
He sits on the bed with you in his lap.
Suddenly your alertness fades and you feel comforted.

“How much did you drink?”  He asks timidly.  
You lean your head back.
Funny.

“Just a little”,
your words slur from your swollen tongue.
You start to giggle.
Arms begin to sweat.
Stomach tightens.
Puke.
Tears.
Hushed.

“Shh now.  You’re fine.  It’s alright.  Breathe.  Breathe.”,  He coo's
and slowly strokes your spine.
Tensions released.
He stands and walks to the door.

“No!  Come back!”, You cry.
He’s leaving.
Why?
You reach your hand out,
like a child,
but draw it back quickly.

“Haven’t I always come back?  This time is no different.”
Only a second passes and you’re out.
Not all the way.
Eyes closed.
A window opens.
The fan goes on.
A blanket covers you.
He’s there.

Whoever you are,
you need to suffocate me with words,
with language.
Every little note you leave needs to trap me.
Each letter needs to pin me down
and sprinkle me with droplets of you.

Write me stories and poems and sonnets.
I want your words to love me and kiss me and hold me.
I want you to inspire me in the absence of coffee aromas and pretty scenery’s.

Write to me about the little things.
Tell me how the floorboards feel in the dark
and what mornings are like away from home.
Tell me about the draft in your room,
and how cigarette smoke feels whilst dancing past your lips.

Write about me,
about my freckles,
about my peachy skin,
about my auburn hair,
about my skinny bones.

Record the time for me.
Write about the seconds of each minute,
how that hour in the waiting room was.
What do you do in each cycle of the sun?

Whoever you are,
write to me.

We lie awake in the cozy sheets of the shoreline,
letting the infant ripples crawl over us
and then slink silently away to the sea.  
Your bare legs tremble
with each gust of wind,
with each heavy breath,
with each gentle touch,
with each kiss.  
The speckled sand remaining on my lips envelope yours
and a trickle of peppermint breath swims across the tip of my jaw,
as I lull you to sleep.  
We are the ocean,
the turquoise kissing a burst of orange sunlight on the horizon.  
We are infinite.