The Redhead.
The little auburn braid
wrapped across a freckled forehead,
revealing the natural orange and blonde streaks.
The china doll face,
with porcelain skin.
Pale lips, pink cheeks.
Eyes like the sea,
turquoise with speckles of green.
A crooked, imperfect, perfect smile.
A constant smile.

The month of crescent moons and indigo flamed candles.  
Of burning sage and twinkling hooded lights flickering in frosted windows.  
Of chipped nail varnish and lips chapped with bitter cold.
Of darkened mornings with knitted scarves wrapped beneath pink noses and wet lashes.  
Of lonely evergreens and sleigh bells a distant howl in the wind.

Brushing lips
Fingertips
Cotton rips
Swiveled hips
Who needs relationships?

I need you
to write to me,
to hide little poems for me.

I need you
to paint for me,
to create little portraits for me.

I need you
to bake for me,
to make little cupcakes for me.

I need you
to create for me,
to give me little droplets of you.

I need you to be my artist.

She’s so dainty,
with her sparkling, springtime smile.
I wish to be her.
I envy her whimsical dance
and how she prances through sunlight.
She would throw her hands up to
the lavender laced skies and twirl.
I once asked her how she remained so pure.
She replied with a pretty song.
Her voice was silver and crystal.
In that melody, I realized I would never be her.
I had to be me.
She was peaches and sunlight and sparkles.
I was the earth, the night, the moon.
I made an attempt.
I sang in the meadows and weeped beneath the trees
and for a day, just a day,
I was something of a fairy.
And as for the present me,
I want to remain this way forever.,
to remain happy as she is.
And I shall try.
But, it is late, however on my dark little corner of this foggy earth,
so I think I’ll blow out this fire,
crawl under the ground
and drift to another world,
until sunshine sings again tomorrow.

She sits in the dark
clinging to wall spaces
where light switches used to matter.
The power's out.
He is her only light in a city turned black.
She fears the darkness.
It makes her skin curdle
like the warm milk sitting in the fridge.
The heat recedes slowly from the apartment.
He lights candles and brings her something to eat.
Her pulse steadys at the sound of his breathing,
but quickens as the winds thrash outside,
knocking trees, houses, people.
Inside isn't safe.
More often than not, danger draws her in,
but not now, not tonight, not with nature as a foe.
Her family has gone, evacuated with the rest of them.
So, she's alone, and
she sits in the dark,
with him.

I could make a home in the warmth of his arms,
my cheek pressed to his chest,
his pulse puncturing my ear,
breathing echoing in the small space.
The blue pools of his eyes could redefine the sky.
My ribcage could be occupied by his fingers
and we could be happy.

Sometimes I wonder if he was born
with those thin black fibers perfectly spread across his jaw
and that tired, intelligent shadow
beneath his eyelashes.
It was the swift eyebrow raises that got me.
It was the tiny smirks from across the room,
the glances,
the suggestion.
We were shoulders brushing,
eyes nestled on one another,
lowered voices,
pauses.

We were dangerous.

My poetry comes in pulses,
in waves, in breaths.
Take it all, crumple it into a little ball of flavors,
and scenes,
and lovers,
and sadness,
and scents,
and magic
and swallow it whole.
Don't chew it, or grind its little letters up.
Let the ***** on your tongue sting it,
make it a little delusional, a little wild.
Let the alcohol twist its meaning.
Don't spit it out, don't *****
because it wouldn't be the only thing sticking to the lining of the trash can.
Taste it completely, intoxicated or not,
let the little droplets burn your throat,
let the beer stain your lips with poetic regret.
Let it consume you as the bottle does.

Today was the first time I saw my grandfather since his passing.
He had a chubbier face
and was behind the wheel of a red Toyota Camry
next to a woman who wasn't my grandmother.  
Becca was in the passenger seat beside me.  
She didn't see my knuckles turn white
as I gripped the steering wheel tighter.  
Then the light told me I could go.  
She didn't see tears fall as I accelarated into the intersection
when all I wanted to do was turn around follow
the man who wasn't my grandpa
in a car that wasn't his
to a house I'd never seen before
and wouldn't miss when I left.

Who wants to come over?
We can paint our nails with pastel colors
and experiment with our hair.
We can plan trips to places we’ll never go
and then bake brownies.
We can tell stories we’ve both already memorized by heart
and act like they’re new ones.  
We can laugh at nothing
and comment on how soft my old blanket is.  
We can go through my closet
and create **** outfits
and wear them out because we’re both a little too self conscious to wear them to school.  
We can get pretty for each other
and go through a random box of stuff in my parents closet.
We can plan an elegant dinner just for us
and dress up like fairies.
We can make jewelry with the little plastic beads I still have from when I was a kid.  
We can be cliche and stupid.
We can be happy.
Maybe another day.

We spent our days
sleeping in the summers haze
and years being together.

No shoes, no worry
and no need to hurry.
The time was on our side.

In the bright morning sun,
through sprinklers we'd run
and eat honeydew in the shade.

But now in fruitless meadows we cry,
fearing that those lovely memories die,
but you and I shall remain alive.

One morning he awoke to find
his nose had gone missing,
the sculpted feature that
clung to his face so sweetly, gone.
He couldn't enjoy the smell
of baking or clean laundry
in his afternoons spent with me,
or even the wintery scent while walking
up to my front door.
Or the lingering coffee before he closed his.
But he still had his lips, his eyes.
That was enough for me
and my button nose was enough for him
to experience every aroma.

i
She was sick of hero's,
of the boys who tried to save her from herself.  
Her world had become a constant blur
of innocent liplocks and hair neatly parted,
of well-made beds and early curfews,
of speed limits and no trespassing signs.  
She was trapped within the parameters of goodness,
condemned to the ideas of sweetness.  
She wanted to succumb to something,
to submit herself to the darkness of a boy who didn't want to be fixed.  It was a realization she had the night she saw him,
truly saw him,
a boy who had been a stranger in a bar
and weeks later became the fixation she couldn't manage without.  

ii
One night he appeared in the doorway of the bedroom,
soft blue light illuminating his face,
nestled behind his nose
and under his lashes.  
The crease of a smug grin forming at the corners of those lips.  
He knew exactly what he did
and it tempted her all the more.  
He was a villain, a cold blooded creature, a criminal.  
His mouth reminded her of the demons in all of her nightmares,
the hooded figures reaching out to grasp her hands
and pull her in with only the gentlest touch
to let her think she was still in control.  
Those haunted sheets and his pouted lips
were enough to keep her stirring until dawn.  
He hadn't even touched her,
but he managed to keep her squirming under the thought of him.  
He was salt in her eyes and sugar on her tongue.  
He had shown her the true meaning of corruption.

iii
And then it was over.  
She wasn't sure they were done,
but she left anyway.  
He screamed and told her to do what she wanted,
but she chose to live.  
His tousled hair had become too messy for her,
his temper didn't exclude her anymore.  
She was not weak,
she was terrified.  
She was drowning.  
And when the sea had finally come for her,
he didn't follow.  
The swells pulled her deep beneath the surface,
invaded her lungs
and the strain on her heart felt like his fingers across her ribs.  
He let the seas foam lap against his toes
and then watched her foam at the mouth,
her pupils dilated,
skin pale.  
She was swallowed by the swift currents,
consumed by bursts of blue,
his eyes no longer defined the color.
He wasn't there.  
Those nights spent over the bathroom sink,
perched on the fire escape,
hidden beneath sheets,
he wasn't there.  
She knew the feeling all too well
and that things lose their shine under water.  
But at least she had found a home in the abyss.

It's been ten days since I've written.
Ten days I've been an uninspired mess.
Ten days I've had the little dizzies after standing up too quickly.
Ten days I've felt rug burn in my cheeks and cotton mouth in my eyes.
Ten days I've felt the grease ooze from my hair down my back.
Ten days I've found a home in the unswept floorboards by the door.
Ten days I've bathed in crumpled, ink infected papers.
Ten days I've drawn blood from dry lips no longer able to whistle.
Ten days I've doubted tomorrow.
Ten days I've...just...

She's not done counting.
Sitting in the middle of the bed,
feet tucked under her,
white room boiling over with tension.
She hopes for safety.
What time is it?
The clocks don't keep time anymore.
The rain hasn't been steady in years.
The drums are no longer pounded evenly.
Portions.
Distribution.
How many months need to go by
for an understanding that the wheels,
those headlights, that copper painted body
won't roll up along the gravel again?
How many extra places need to be set at the dinner table,
how many reminders to turn the light off downstairs,
how many cold sides of the bed need to be felt,
to feel the sting of reality again?
How much longer will agony exist?

You once said to me
you once told me
I've opened
sometimes, we are
sometimes, you are
You are mesmerizing
In New York, the city aches
biting through the flesh of July
Shy beneath you

You gave a smile for me today.
I knew I'd impressed you.
I must've said something coy.  
You turned and gave an

I've told you about this one

look, to a face across the room.
Do it again, please, but look at me this time.

Lean your head back again,
raise your eyebrows provocatively again,

I've told you about this one

Shrug your shoulders again
Smile like that again.

I've told you about this one

But this time look at me.

Love.

Love is like wetting yourself,

unexpected and warm.

It’s out in the open

and everyone knows

You might be embarrassed

at how clearly it shows.

But in the end,

when all’s said and done,

you aren’t afraid anymore.

You show the world what you’ve done.

It's me.  I'm right here.  Don't sit there and pretend to wonder who because you and I both know which face popped into your head when you read those first two words.  I'm the "you" in your daydreams.  You might be curled up in an armchair, sitting at your desk in a classroom, perched on a park bench, or laying in bed and I might be across the room, across the world or cuddled up next to you.  Our sleeping patterns could be different, my hair could have changed, our common friends may have separated and our childhoods might be over.  We could be together, we could be apart.  I could be gone.  Or never here to begin with, but you know it's me and it's always been me.  Don't try play us out in your head.  Just relax, take a breath and stay with me for a while.

This sleepy town is wide awake now that you’re gone.
The blur of strangers and the haze of sunsets are constant.
There are no dreamy midnight strolls.
The silence is fleeting.
I hear everything, but the sound of my own pulse.
There are no restful hearts and restless hands.
I cannot stop time anymore.
I cannot dream here again.

I'd rather be where you are.
I'd rather be held by rough hands,
pale fingers upon flushed cheeks.
Make me new again.
You're no stranger darling,
but you can be who ever you want for now
and I never liked my name until you hummed it
beneath blue sheets and bedposts.
I'd rather you remember us
by the way we tug and fumble
over belt loops and knit stockings,
over neck ties and shirt clasps,
over thin cotton and ripped lace,
over me
under you
under sheets
under moonlight
under ceiling fans and stars
under scrutiny and love is all we
understood and love is
under appreciated and
underrated and maybe now you're
under me and I'm
under your spell and I hope this never ends.

I hope it's never over.

...And on those nights when the moon is as full as the sheets are empty,
I wonder if what he really felt was love.  
I wonder how the moon can be so completely filled with light
and never question whether it's really even light at all.  
I wonder if when he said it he meant it.  
Maybe he meant something else entirely.  
I wonder if the realization hit him years later
and I wonder if he thought I was worth telling.  
I wonder if my face popped into his mind
and I wonder if he thought about looking up my address
or if he'd ever driven past the old apartment.  
I wonder if I was worth the gas money,
if remnants of my body smothered in nostalgia
were worth those few extra dollars.  
I wonder if he ever thinks about it.  
I wonder if he questions what he didn't do .  
Did he realize what he meant
when his phone would buzz at three in the morning
and I'd be sitting on a sidewalk somewhere in the heart of the city
wanting him to take me home?  
Did he realize what he meant
when the candles were lit
and dinner was made
and I would plead with him
and my hair would be tangled in his hands,
but he was too tired to go further?  
Did he realize what he meant
when he couldn't say it back until the right time,
but the right time wasn't until warm mornings
when he'd still be half asleep
and my whispers wouldn't let him continue
so he said what he needed to?  
I wonder,
I wonder.  
I wonder why I didn't realize it
I wonder when he thinks of me.  
When the sheets are empty?  
When my old candles are finally burned down the wick?  
When the coffee *** collects dust in the cabinet?  
Does it make him wonder what I meant to him?  
Does he even realize?

"...and the truth of it all
was that I'd never really let go.  
I'd just distracted myself from the inevitable.
You know, prolonged fate?
and for what it's worth, darling,
I still love you.
...There. That's the actual reality. 
It's out and I can't take it back.  
Now you know.
I still love you."

i.
Unrequited love is the most silent pain anyone could ever know.
ii.
It is for the lonely, sleepy hearts, the ones who find safety in dangling themselves above rocky cliffs just to be tortured by not being tortured at all.
iii.
The hardest thing is understanding that you'll never be able to explore whats underneath the thin cotton that covers his body.
iv.
But worse than that, is realizing that so many other girls can.
v.
You'll never know true heartbreak, because he never loved you in the first place.  
vi.
If he wants perfect, you'll be perfect.  If he wants broken, you'll be broken, but sooner or later you'll realize he'll never want you.

The window haunts me
as I wither alone.  
Telling me lies
and looking like home.  
Sweet within you
is the home that I’ve known,
since childhood dwellings
were crumbling bone.

Where are we?
Where were you?
I don’t need forgiveness.
Where are we?
Where were you?
Please don’t deny us.

I miss you.