The way he touched me
when we first got serious
was much different from how
he touched me at the end
of it all.

His hands used to be soft
and his eyes drank in
every curve of my body,
every freckle of my skin.
He would look up at me like
I was a new adventure,
and I knew that this whole
night of romance was for me-
he wanted me to really feel
how much he cherished me.

I miss those days
immensely.

At the end his hands were
much more rough,
his eyes averted mine.
He couldn't see me as a treasure-
I was just flesh under his own.
It became all about his lust,
his desperateness to feel something real.

And that night that held
a surprise showing of
grins and grimaces and
a couple almost-kisses,
it felt like home.
I am terrified to remember
that night because
I realized something:
His fingers grazed my skin
like they did
in the beginning,
he looked at me like I was new.

It's terrifying because
the only thing holding me together
is knowing that the boy I love
is nothing like the boy I left.
And now that I caught that glimpse,
and now that I know he's
exactly the same as he used to be,
my head is spinning and
my heart spasms in pain.
I was wrong and there are no words
to describe how sad that makes me.

But I made the choice
to walk away from the confusion
for enough time to realize
that I'm okay with being alone.

And even if I were to find someone new,
I would always feel like I was cheating,
like anything I could ever feel
for someone else
would be a lie.
And even if I were to be with him again,
I would feel like I was doing him
a disservice,
like even if I was loving him,
I still wouldn't be genuine enough
to make him feel loved.
I will always and forever feel like
I am cheating on the man I love.

And that's the price I will pay
for the immense disservice
I have already paid him.

i waited there.  i waited for hours.  i waited for days.  no one ever came.

seasons changed, leaves fell, the ground hardened and snow caked every treetop.  and still no one came.

one day a woman with a child walked by.  they were not who i was waiting for.  they crunched along the leaf-strewn path, nodded a greeting toward me, and continued on.  so i kept waiting.

it rained hard and often that spring.  the path was unclear, and the trees were bent in exhaustion.  flower buds wrapped themselves in blankets of green as they reached toward the soft, muddy ground, trying to find a bed.

one great tree stood tall on the edge of the forest.  it was split down the middle, into two distinct twin trees, each competing to reach the top of the surrounding canopy first.  the bark peeled as the twins stretched and grew.  as the years passed the twins became tired, and so they stopped racing and waited instead for something new to come into their lives.

i decided i would no longer wait.  i walked along the path, kicking dead leaves out of the way, their arms curling around their bodies for warmth.  i whistled, i skipped, i picked flowers and weeds to make you a bouquet.  i wandered for days and found nothing.  and so i waited again for you.

there was a patch of violet hyacinth flowers along the path.  they sprung from the ground and surrounded an old tree stump, as if shielding it from harm.  their leaves were an impenetrable gate that could wait all summer, protecting their beloved, lost tree.  the stump would always be safe.  no matter how long it remained there.

in the fall, a twiggy stickling of a tree dropped most of its sun bleached red leaves.  one fell into my hood.  i took it out and twirled it between my fingers.  the days were getting shorter, and seeing the sun light the remaining leaves was like watching the branches start on fire.

i wandered toward the edge of the forest and sat against the largest tree i could find.  the tree was split down the middle, and each half was just as tall as the other.  i decided this was the king tree of the forest.  i fashioned two crowns out of the hydrangeas and mountain laurel i picked on my journey and hung them on the lowest branch of each twin king.  i laid the red leaf i picked out of my hood in the crevice where the twins split from each other, and bowed to the king of the forest.  as i marched away i hummed a tune i can only describe as majestic.

i am still waiting.  the daisies and dandelions dance in the wind to pass the time.  although there are burrs on my socks and bug bites on my knees, i will continue to wait.  i'll wait for days, for years.  i will wait for you.

two days into it,
already tip-toeing across creaking floors
and keeping eyes down to avoid confrontations.
all mom does is cry, argue, complain,
and i'm here to clean up the mess,
to agree with her, to make it all better.

two days into it,
already missing my support system
and my best friends to make me laugh.
i work out, but mom questions my reasoning.
i eat a snack, but mom questions calories.
i watch a show, but mom questions my scheduling abilities.
i do something as simple as lay down,
   and mom questions my productivity.

i am seen as a drain on this family because
i am working on fixing myself.

questions upon questions that i have no answer to:
when am i going to work,
when is my group counseling,
when do i have volleyball,
how will i pay tuition,
how will i pay rent,
why am i changing my major,
how do i feel about people i haven't even
   talked to in months,
am i going to mail him the necklace
   i thought was lost,
am i depressed am i suicidal am i cutting.

mom i just don't have answers for you.
and i think it's about time you stopped asking.

Orion,
I kind of miss your sandy hair,
and the way your eyes are bluer than mine.
I miss the way you'd watch me fall asleep,
and I'm pretty sure I can hear the absence
of your chuckle every time the night sky is clear.

Orion,
I miss the way you used to tell stories:
your face was the most expressive form of art,
I swear you lit up the entire room,
you were my forever young Peter Pan,
discussing the battles of young warriors
and the chaos of young daughters,
and how their hearts were full of mothering love.

Orion,
I saw you were in town tonight,
I noticed you sitting among the rest of the sky tonight.
Would you mind peeking in my room this evening,
would you mind taking me to fly with the rest
of the lost boys?

Orion,
I miss your tanned arms snaking around mine,
I feel the need to smell the sun on your neck again.

Orion,
Would you visit me, maybe?

Sincerely,
A Very Lovesick Girl

i remember small bits about him.  maybe less about him, and more about
the things that had to do with him.  i remember the look of his piano: glossy,
always shining and clean, the pedals made a haunting squeal every few stanzas.
i remember that his shirt fit to his arms very well, showing off the fact
that he was in shape.  the veins and tendons in his arms were always visible,
lifting and writhing under his usually tan skin.  i can remember how his
shadow danced and swung against the wall as he played songs that his mother
had taught him when he was young and new to the music world.  he sometimes
burst out laughing in the middle of a song, remembering something funny that
had been said earlier that day.  i think that's what i miss most about him- he
was never on time for anything.

i remember small bits about him, but i can't recall what he smelled like, or
how his forehead creased when he was worried.  i can't remember what his face
looked like.  i can't even summon up the memory of how his lips tasted on my
tongue.


--

the trees were reaching up, doing gymnastics across the sky on the morning
that he left town.  he was wearing his old winter coat and ratty old hat,
pulled down tight to cover his ears.  the ground was a mess of never-raked
leaves.  i was a mess of never-wiped tears.  the sky was white, and i thought
to myself, 'i wonder when it'll start snowing...'  

he held onto my waist one last time, and placed his lips to my neck.  he
inhaled and i heard his breath catch in his throat.  he looked up at me one
last time and cleared his throat.  "I should go, Anne."  he turned then, and
started walking down the dirt path away from our house, our home.  the snow
began to fall, and as he faded into nothingness i swore i'd never forget him.

--

on the night of my twenty third birthday there was a full moon.  my friends
and i thought it would be fun to have a fire and see which of us could count
the most stars.  the yard was surrounded by tall oaks, which were home to
hundreds of birds.  when i was young we hung dozens of birdhouses i had
painted up in the branches.  some mornings i like to lay out in the grass and
listen to the birds wake up and sing.  tonight the birds stayed up, as if they
wanted to celebrate my birthday with us.  they flew from tree to tree,
darkening the sky along with the smoke from the bonfire.  

the full moon brings out the crazy in animals.  i remember when he was still
here and we would run around down by the creek in the moonlight.  but the
birds were wild.  we ended up putting out the fire and going inside, afraid
they would dive down and attack us.  i've never seen them that riled up.

--

i remember the night he showed up quite well.  i may not remember how the
tears ran down his cheeks, or how his breath was catching on every syllable he
spat out, but i remember that night well.  the moon was thin, and i was
sitting at the kitchen counter, reading a book i recently purchased.  i heard
him knock- a truly hollow sound.  when i opened the screen door i saw him
sitting on the step, holding his head in his hands and his hair in his fists.  
his veins were still visible, and his shoulders were strong.  he had grown out
his hair and it was strewn every which way.  i suspect he thought i could help
him.  i knew i couldn't.

he stayed over that night.  i walked him to my bed and tucked him in.  he
brought the blankets up to his face and he inhaled deeply.  he smiled beneath
the covers, i suspect.  i read him some of the book that he interrupted when
he arrived.  he fell asleep soon after and i left the room, headed for the
couch in the living room.  i wish i would've stayed in bed with him.  i might
have remembered more than this if i had.

--

i awoke to the sound of the old piano.  i thought i was dreaming when i heard
his voice diving and tiptoeing with the notes he plucked and played.  i padded
into the room, where we first fell in love all those years ago.  he was
rocking on the bench, tears dropping to his lap from wet cheeks.  there was a
note on top of the piano, addressed to me.  it began with 'I would like to
thank you, Anne...' and ended with 'but we both know I won't be staying.'  

he stood and turned to me, and just like last time, he placed his lips to my
neck and inhaled my scent.  "I've missed this piano."  i wrapped my arms
around him, and murmured in his ear, "and the piano's missed you, but we both
know you won't be staying."  his eyes met mine, and i smiled as i wiped away a
stray tear from his chin.  he nodded, and gave me one last hug before he
walked down the driveway for the last time.

What if this is me, losing my love?
What if this is my love being taken from me, kidnapped and ransomed and I don't have enough energy in my body to pay up?

Saturdays were her favorite.  She'd watch cartoons in the morning and play with paper dolls in the afternoon.  She made sure all the paper dolls had another doll to love them, a perfect match of brown eyes, cute smiles, light hair.

Where have you gone? I barely recognize you anymore.  How can I make you look new if all you ever do is sit in the corner like an old doll?  You're fragile, you're breakable.  I don't like what you've become and quite frankly, you're scaring me.  Stay over there, don't come close.  Tell me why your eyes are glazed over like that, tell me why your hair is coming out in patches and why your full pink smile has turned into a thin white line.  You were my best friend, you were my sister, you were my little Kelly.*

Sometimes she would watch the people that walked by.  She would choose names for each person and pick one individual out, imagining what their reaction would be to her saying, "I love you, will you run away with me?"

Come back, please.  When you started fading I thought it was because you had been in the sun too long, I thought it was because you hadn't had any food in some time.  Our tea parties became rare occurrences and you were always sleeping.  Come back, little Kelly.

One day she woke up with an energy made of something she couldn't measure.  Not joules, not electron volts, not anything she could quantize.  It wasn't the caffeine and it wasn't the 7 hours of sleep the night prior.  She woke up in love.

I've been trying to sell our house for two and a half years and it just won't sell.  You're poisoning this house, my old friend.  You need to leave, you need to be buried in the backyard, with the puppy we adopted and the bunny I hit with the truck when I was 17.  You need to get out of my house now.  We're both much too old to play together, and you never seemed to understand that I had to move on.

Her trouble was that she woke up in love with one stranger too many.  She's lied so many times that she doesn't trust herself anymore.  Make her decisions for her, she's not a fit mother to these poisonous ideas she is fostering in her head.  Don't allow her to choose her future.

Kelly, don't you see, I don't love you the way I used to.  Kelly, you need to go.  A family is stopping by this afternoon to take a tour of the house and you need to be swept out of the attic by then.  Pack your things.  Take your cracked glasses and your grey shoes.  I'm too old to be a part of your family now.

--

She sees a hint of what she fell in love with.  His eyes are downcast, his fingers strumming and thrumming her love songs without words, his mouth twitching with thoughts he can't seem to string into sentences.  He is a beautiful child again.

Sing me songs even chickadees don't know, strum me the most beautiful lullaby.  Take a picture of this moment- bottle it.
  
She loves the hint of a smile when he catches her staring at his lips instead of the neck of his guitar, when he realizes she is in maddening, chaotic love.

And some days you're just a friend.  I see you leaking from your life, straight out of your backyard.  And sometimes you mean nothing.  I see you standing alone on your deck, sitting on your cement paradise like it's your imaginary god.  Keep yourself in check.  You won't be getting any more kisses tonight, I can't – I can't let you be the one to make up my mind.
  
She can barely remember the days of being alone, of being unable to tell anyone about her scars shrouding her hips and her head that hung heavy.

Today was a fever, a fog of anger.  I want to make you hate me, I want you to leave.  Save your lies and excuses for someone else, I don't want to hear them. I hope the fog can creep in my ears and into my brain.  I want it to make me forget everything about you.  I'm sure I'd be happier.  Maybe if the fog can erase my memories, I can finally stop crying.  Maybe I can stop trying to prove I want to die.  Let me **** myself, let me go.  You're smoke in the wind and you're fading with every breath I take.

Sophomore year of high school was the most difficult time of her life.  Fortunately for her, she met you that winter.  You made her smile, you made her laugh. She found a boy whose blue eyes and long brown hair complimented her own. Her paper doll dream come true, you loved her as she was.

You are smog.  Your face is no longer a child of summer, your hair has gotten long and tangled.  Your eyes are clouded, and you are fading, slipping from my fingers.  As your soul dies in my arms, as I try to save you, you steal my breath, grab at my lungs, take what is keeping me alive.  What is there to fix, and can it be put back together again? L-o-v-e is only four letters long, but then again, so is your name, and god knows that doesn't mean anything to me anymore.

--

His back was straight and his stomach was soft.  The hollow of his collar bone and hip bone spelled her name in 12 point font kisses.  Her breath came out in gasps and he shivered from the thought of being able to coax such unfamiliar passion from her lips.

You are the night.  You are the wind in my dreams and the birds in my hair.  Lift me higher, I want no control.  I want to see the tops of buildings above the low level clouds; the spires piercing the sky like needles piercing my flesh.

The feeling doesn't wear away.  Days have passed and they still long for each other.  Their bodies feel the urge to be near, to be touching.

*Let us set sail on the tunes of summer, of air conditioners and scratchy radios.  Let us sail away from this life.

"She was a good friend of mine,
and every time I think about her
all I see is the lake we lived on in the summer
and all I smell is her dad's barbecue.
I hear the wind dragging the willow branches
into the water,
I feel the rain bounce off my skin
as we rowed to the island in the middle
of the lake.
She was a great girl,
and a wonderful woman.
I'll miss her every second of every day."

almost every **** day
i halt words that are about to spill from my throat,
i hiccup over sentences that i can't bear to speak.
three letter words can serve as a trigger
that launches a full fledged attack on my nerves,
which in turn launches me out into the street.
and every time my heel hits the pavement
all i can hear is "get out. get out. get out."
all i know is that i need to get out.
and i need to get out fast.

but almost every **** day
i spit out terms of endearment
for all of those who
i hold so dangerously high.
i almost collapse under their weight
when that short, seemingly insignificant word
almost sneaks past my lips.
the soles of my sneakers
can barely hold me aloft
when i run with such panicked purpose,
hearing nothing but
"how could i almost- how could i almost-
how could i almost say-"
and knowing that
indeed, i almost said it.

and almost every **** day
i lash out at the memories
that i've cut into jigsaw pieces,
trying to throttle the
panic-prone girl i've grown from
into screaming the word
so loud her voice cracks
and her throat bleeds.
but she knows the weight
that a three lettered word can hold.
she will preserve a seat
within the limits of her vocabulary
for what she defines as
'safety, comfort, security'
even though i define it to mean
'panic. go. get out. escape.'

and almost every **** day
i utter a word to show my loved ones
how much i want to hold them,
to protect them and take
both attack and blame head on for them,
how much i want to hurt for them.
i stare into the eyes
of my best friends
and i almost say it,
i almost call them
'kid'

sometimes it hits me really hard,
like in an instant, my world is backwards
and my heart is being squeezed too tightly-
just enough to hurt like hell.

i'm suddenly drowning in blankets
that smell like us
and pillows that have
blood stains on them,
my eyeliner is smeared and
my hair is a mess.
i'm back in your basement,
and i don't know how to leave.

we're eating dinner while watching
fringe, supernatural, chuck,
and your dad made me my own pasta
(i love that man to an indescribable extent).
i look over at you and suddenly something changes.

your eyes have gotten darker,
your hair is knotted and your face older,
your laugh has faded away.
you went and grew up without me.
you make me nervous, sweets,
and i know i've already lost you.
you scare me, kid.

i'm trying to leave,
trying to hurry past the quilt on your wall
and the screaming cat on the stairs.
i'm attempting to escape the fear
that you've instilled in me.

but i realize that the thing i fear
is a whole different person
than the one i ate pretzels with
and fell asleep with while watching
donnie darko and **** bill.
he isn't the one who
sang songs to me, or
tickled me until i was sobbing, or
looked at me as if i was
the best girl in the world.
this was a whole new person.
and i didn't know a single
thing about him.

so now when all of this hits me
and i realize it's completely real,
that i lost my best friend and
the man i wanted to marry,
i realize that i've been
mourning this for a year now.
i lost him a long time ago.
i've dealt with this already.
i can smile now,
i can laugh.
i can finally be me again.

and while i know i'll always love him,
i can just remember those better years,
when we'd watch scary movies in the dark
and play myst and nancy drew in my basement.
i can just remember him as the boy
with summer across his cheeks
and a grin that made me giddy.
he was the healing i always needed and
i can never thank him enough.

A bitter stench follows your steps
corroding the tips of your hair
biting at the back of your throat
floating its way into my home.

You are sick.

--

Your search for perfection is contagious
a path paved with shards of glass
beautiful from afar
but this path is destructive.

You are incomplete.

--

Thin white lines decorate your arms
too many hours spent in rotten company
the habit is not firm
but the lust for scars is strong.

You are blemished.

--

Fingers grace strings and a voice sails
your talent is pure and unyielding
a reminder of what once played in my ears
you are a breath of familiar air.

You are homesickness.

--

Bleach stains appear on shoulders
scrub clean the mess which you have created
tear skin, split lips
shatter, mutilate, punish.

You are caustic, Kelly.

We met on a street out in the middle of Brunberry.  Often times, we'd sit on the curb, watching the middle aged man in the corner house fix up his boat-of-a-car.  Or, on Sundays, the chubby, bakery-esque woman would walk her grandchildren down the road to church.  We were young, then.  I still visit that street in Brunberry, and, in fact, it is called Feldspar Road.  The man on the corner, with the old car?  His name is Charles North, and he's a retired mechanic.  The grandmother is dead now, but her daughter and grandkids moved in a couple years ago.  I still come back and check up on those people, and I still watch the leaves fall in autumn and watch water pool around our favorite bench in spring.  The air is just as crisp as when we were children.  Feldspar Road is just as it was when we were young.

--

Just off of Feldspar Road, there is a park.  Really, it's just a wide, open field, with unkempt grass that the neighborhood has picnics and late afternoon barbecues on.  Do you remember when we stopped by the Feldspar block party on your twentieth birthday weekend?  It was warm and the sun was blinding; a perfect July day for grilling out in the park.  You pulled me down onto the dried grass and we watched all of the familiar people gabbing and gossiping with neighbors.  Charles, grandma and the children, that young couple that had recently moved in.  These people were like our family, even though we didn't live here.  They made us feel at home.

--

It's October, and Feldspar Road is coated in bright yellow leaves.  I haven't heard from you in a few months, but I'm sure you're doing okay.  You've been busy with your new friends at your university a few states away.  Feldspar misses you, as do I.  Charles is getting old; his car sits, rusted, in the driveway.  The young couple got divorced, and I'm pretty sure the girl kicked the boy out of the house.  Things are getting dark, despite the turning leaves.  I do sure hope you're doing okay.  The park has a playground, now, and the few children in the neighborhood play there after school.  I've memorized jump rope rhymes, patterns in cat's cradle, and the hardest hopscotch courses.  I know you always loved kids, and watching them play makes me wish you could be here to laugh along with me.

--

I moved out to Kentucky this April.  I needed to get away from home, and away from Feldspar Road.  I visited much too often, and after Charles died, and all new people lived on the block, I felt out of place.  Whatever made Feldspar feel like home was gone.  It's been years since I saw you, and I can only assume you've found someone to love, someone to lay in the grass with, someone to marry.  Me?  I'm starting to meet new people in the area.  I like to spend my time out in the fields by the border.  It's quiet, unless you count the crows and crickets.  It's peaceful, and standing there in the breeze, with the wheat up to my chest, watching the sky turn bright orange in the evening, makes me feel a bit happier.  A little less lonely and a little more at home.

And ‘panic’ doesn't nearly describe:
Pure oxygen turning sour in lungs,
Meals threatening a return from the stomach,
Twitchy fingers and wobbly legs,
Soreness of a tense body,
Laughs-turned-sobs,
Eyes adorned with purple rings,
A destructive adrenaline that welcomes blood.

The red bag has been replaced (just as I was).
No longer do my weapons sit alongside your arrowheads of safety and legitimate love.
A black casket is their new home, shiny and perfectly angled.
It hides in the farthest reaches of a drawer,
beckoning my hand to let the metal topple out of its dark casing.
Three generations of proving that I’m alive,
that I’m capable of feeling something other than
the feet of someone on top of me or the sting of words meant to be innocent.

And yes, I am stronger than I once was.
But I’m stronger in a different way, in a different sense of the word.
Yes, I am weaker in spirit and weaker in a way that makes
daily thoughts into nightmares.
But I am stronger in body.
I am ready for the war this time, and I swear to Orion that I won’t let
my lack of muscle mass or the words ‘replaced’ and ‘forgotten’
etched across my thighs and hip bones hold me back from fighting.
I will throw punches until my arms lay limp and
I will kick until my feet are bleeding and my toes are broken.

the little sparrow watched as the nest was ripped apart.  twigs were tossed,
berries crushed, and his younger brother was clawed at until he no longer
moved.  it was a horrible scene, and the little sparrow was trembling, hiding
behind the trunk of the great tree.  he cried out, screaming for help.  his
mother had been gone for four days.  she never left them alone for that long.

the sky was dimming, the clouds swarming around the rising moon.  the little
sparrow's voice was weakening.  he had been crying for hours and he was all
alone.  a crackling of sticks and crunchy leaves below caught the little
sparrow's attention.  a mud-red fox was tiptoeing around the base of the tree,
his eyes trained on the little helpless sparrow.  the baby bird once again
started up his crying.

as the fox was trying to find a way to get up to the higher branch that the
little sparrow sat on, a dark fluttering of feathers crashed down on top of
him.  a large crow was pecking and scratching at the fox, who was howling
in pain.  the fox managed to get a claw into the crow's wing, and blood seeped
from the velvet-tipped feathers.  the crow only grew fiercer, and chased the
fox away from the tree and into the forest.

the little sparrow cried quietly, frightened and unable to steady himself on
his branch.  the poor baby fell from the branch onto a soft bed of leaves on
the ground below.  the little sparrow tried to get up, but was much too
frantic to stand.  the crow hopped toward the sparrow, who attempted to hide
in the crispy leaves.  the crow said nothing, he did not make any movements.  
he only gazed at the little sparrow with his large, black eyes.  the little
sparrow fainted from fear.

the nest was rebuilt when the little sparrow woke up.  there were berries in
the corner and plenty of feathers and tufts of fur to keep him warm.  the
little sparrow looked around, trying to find his mother.  she had been gone
for five days, and she never left him alone for that long.  

in the haze of morning light, the little sparrow saw the large crow, standing
on a fence post, staring out over the field.  the little sparrow called to
him, but the crow pretended not to notice.  a drop of blood fell from his wing
and the crow spoke. "i am no mother, but i will keep you safe, little sparrow.  
you have been left all alone and you are but a child.  do not fear the night
nor the creatures that hunt, for i will be here with you."

convincing a child that someone is now
forever absent
from their life is a matter of
saying goodbye, wiping up tears,
and never seeing a trace of them
again.

as an eighteen year old,
i would have appreciated the child's version
of this ritual of persuasion.
instead, i got two-month intervals of
delay and lingering,
times of remaining identical
to the stale soul i had become.
i could count the intervals
exactly to the day -
two months was the longest
anyone could go before shattering
into insignificant shards.

as a twenty year old,
i have become skeptical
of the idea that someone could
leave at all.
i might not speak to them,
i might not see them,
i might not notice things around me
that used to define my vision of them,
but the absence of habits
gives absolutely no validity
to the claim that they are
forever gone from my world.

i have spent four point zero two percent
of my life with dulled senses.
for ten months
my vision was blurry,
my hearing was garbled,
my sense of smell was practically
ripped out of my body.
in this time, i forgot that:
there is a certain angle to the shoulder blades
that i find beautiful,
i feel at peace when i hear a boy sing,
a familiar scent can snap me back to
whatever year i first smelled it.
my lack of perceiving the world
almost convinced me that
someone could be forever absent.

but my senses have recently
come back to me,
along with all the memories
they originally created.
i can finally see the bridges of noses
and the straightness of forearms,
i can finally hear voices tip toe
around guitar strings,
i can finally recall how
comforting it is to know
exactly how the most important people in my life
smell.

i took this reunion of senses
as a sign to move forward,
as a sign that
i'm through with waiting.
my life has taken a turn
and i have swiftly started
on a path to being
someone no one knew before.
i have heard quite a number
of testimonials that explain
in great detail
just how different i have become.

and some nights that is the last thing
i want to hear -
that i succeeded in changing myself,
that i succeeded in giving up
what i thought i stood for,
what i thought i wanted,
what i thought was permanent.
i loved who i was.
i still love who i was.
but, i have almost been thoroughly convinced
that who i was is now
completely absent from
my current spirit.

i am learning to love my senses again,
even though they remind me of
how i lived the other
ninety-five point nine eight percent
of my life.

strangers can smell like boys i thought
were forever gone,
strangers can laugh just like boys i thought
were forever absent,
strangers can have the same stretch of shoulders
and the same strong forearms as boys i thought
would never come back.
and sometimes they take the seat next to mine
on the bus,
in class,
at a movie or at dinner.

so, as an almost twenty-one year old,
i have decided that surely,
no one can ever be forever absent
from your life.
the best you can get is
a deadening of senses so that
you no longer notice all the little things
that bring the part of your soul
that they labeled as theirs
back into being.

repetitive two- or three- word phrases
are the outer limit of my vocabulary
when all i can hear is
my pulse in my throat and
my hands and legs rattling
against the floorboards.

my back is spiraling into itself,
searching for my stomach, for my lungs,
searching for a reason for this
suffocating pain and imminent death.

my eyes can't settle on any single object,
because everything is fragile
and i'm afraid to watch anything break-
maybe it's because i watched you break,
i watched my words break your trust,
i watched my actions wreck your beliefs.

a few minutes later, when the attack passes
and i'm alone on my bedroom floor,
i detach my arms from around my knees,
shove myself up with whatever strength i can muster,
and scrub yesterday's makeup
from the bags under my eyes.

someday i'll look back on this
and i'll see that i was a warrior.
a warrior with holes in my armor.
a paladin without a proper breastplate,
lacking the internal systems
that offer refuge during something as simple
as a panic attack.

the needle drops lower and lower-
135 becomes 132 becomes 128.
belts are tightened to newly ripped notches,
newly formed bruises covered by fresh denim.
one fourth of a healthy day's energy:
   consumed slowly,
   utilized to its full extent every night
   when heavy breathing and sweaty collarbones
   help her slip into sleep.


*and it was an accident, i swear-
how would i know that seeing this number drop
would make me giggle and make me giddy?
seeing calories go from 2000 to 1000 to 500,
i didn't mean to let this happen.
but floating on hollow bones
has replaced my hideous form of body art,
and so i will continue on this path,
sleep-walking with dizzy eyes
and an empty head.

yesterday i was really proud of myself.
no swollen eyes,
no bruises,
no midnight walks across that frozen bridge.
for thirty two days i was truly okay

yesterday i was proud.
today i feel the pit in my stomach
that screams and tears and growls
all because i'm hungry,
all because i'm empty,
all because i'm wishing on stars
that are hidden behind clouds.
today i feel alone

yesterday i was proud of who i was.
tomorrow i'll be sickened by my face,
i'll be sickened by the splotches and scars
decorating my plain pale skin,
i'll be sickened by the weight
that i can't seem to lose,
no matter how little i eat
or how much i sweat.
tomorrow i'll be sick indeed

yesterday i was proud of
my strength,
my courage,
my smile,
my childish eyes and my chapped lips.
for a month's time i was proud.
yesterday i didn't remember who i was,
but my dreams have returned
and orion's sun bleached hair
and freckled cheeks
only remind me of what used to make me laugh,
of what will never make me smile again.

from now on, every today
will be so different from yesterday.

i.
every meal is an unavoidable family feast
   meat, bread, cheese, dessert
   regret is building inside of me-
   inside my stomach, my thighs, my cheeks.

ii.
clouds, freezing wind, pouring rain
   a sad excuse for summer
   it leaves me just as down
   as i was a year ago today.

iii.
pressured to look busy, to be busy
   to go places without transportation
   to see people who are states away
   to go outside in the lifeless sun.

iv.
privacy is sunday mornings and showers
   watch what you say, what you show
   be prepared to defend a tear or fist
   don't you break down.  not here.
   breakdowns aren't accepted at home.

shoulders of fire:
  her wings rise above her,
  bright red, setting her ablaze
  and yet stinging from the cool breeze.

her path is laid out in dashed and dotted lines:
  connecting constellations,
  connecting scars and moles and freckles,
  connecting each hole she'll have to leap across
  in order to make it to the next day.

progress measured in the lack of reactions
and the abundance of responses:
  her voice stays calm,
  hands are held steady
  while the mind searches only for positive words.

one step forward, but 3 steps back:
  one for mom, who doesn't trust her choices,
  another for the neighbor, who reminds her
  that she'd like to empty her insides
  to be thin, pretty, perfect,
  the last for the memories that she can't defeat-
  memories of his eyes and his mouth and his grip
  on her neck.  
of the memory of his inability to take no as an answer.

she is becoming a piece of summer:
  skin scorched brown,
  eyes clear and bright,
  arms and legs strong.

she is taking steps forward,
  a few backward as well,
but her fire is still alive
  and so is she.

so is she.

what i have to say is
"i'm feeling pretty sad right now"
but it can be illegal to let
negativity sprout in the crevices
of support structures and tear ducts.

what i want to tell you is
"i miss what i left  behind with him"
but it is not well looked upon
to tell of misfortunes with old loves
to those who could be new.

what i wish i could say is
"the healthier i get, the more i want
to go back in time"
but those words would fall upon
full hearts, heightened expectations,
and lost connections.
i set ablaze every bridge
i came across, and there is no way
to travel back now,
and there would be not a single soul
waiting there for me.

what i do say is
"my shoulders are burning today,
my back feels broken this evening,
my eyes are dull tonight"
because physical ailments
are tangible and have permission
to exist, but, indeed,
they are the easiest pains
to cause myself.

When I was much younger and far more outgoing, I lived in a city that, at the time, seemed quite large to me.  The buildings climbed three stories to cast the paved streets into shadows, and businesses seemed to be booming on every winding road.  Although my city was full of action and excitement, it was stale.  My city was exciting, yes- to middle aged men in crisp suits and women who brought customers into their stores with the simple pleasure of freshly baked bread.  For me, a young boy in a family of executives and doctors, my city was an extension of the people I shared a home with.  It was plain.  It was predictable.  It was made by those who came before us and we were just taking it all in for free.

at my wedding, i want a big field, full of paper lanterns.
i want there to be colorful trays of fruit, and i won't just have plain cake-
  no,
i want cheesecake and carrot cake and banana bread and pumpkin bread.

i will get married at the very end of summer,
  when the sun sets a little earlier,
  and the heat is still almost too much to bear.
i want my wedding to be beautiful.

and the tables will be set with intricately designed napkins
and the table numbers will be painted
  onto lanterns swinging above the tables.

my wedding will be a celebration of my life finally beginning,
  being full of color
  and life
  and happiness.

i want to cut off my hair.
if you knew me better, you'd know this is
something i would never truly want.

i want to tell her to stop living with
her head perched over the toilet
and the shower running-
she doesn't want me to hear her insides coming out.

i want to create murals
in between the creases of my fingers
with the absence of paranoia,
with the absence of fear that mom will cry
or search me every time i'm home.

i want to run away.

i want to tell my dearest friends
that i wish i could drop twenty
disgusting, sweaty, hideous pounds
from my already average figure-
i can't even tell them about what happened
with him.

i want to hug my dad.
i want to hug my dad without him worrying
that his little pumpkin girl has issues,
or that he didn't try hard enough,
or that he wasn't there to stop me from
letting myself become this.

i want to be less of a disappointment
to those i care about.

i want to cut off my hair.

maybe it's just my imagination,
but god, did that girl
leave my eyes
   rolling
and my chest
   heaving.

the way she strung me up
and pulled me close,
for two whole hours on the train
we were pressed,
   hip-to-hip and
   tongue-to-tongue.

her silver-set, tourmaline ring
(which she got from her grandmother)
clinked against the chain of my
cheap dollar-store necklace.
that sound is still ringing
   in my ears
and her whispers are still felt
   on my skin.

the indentation from where
the window ledge pressed into my palm
   is still visible,
as well as her lip gloss
   on my collarbone.

maybe it's just my imagination,
but god, was that girl
   beautiful.
her skin was absolutely
   glowing
and her hair
   shone
in the light drifting through
the print-caked glass.

and the strangest part is
it feels like tonight's the night
but I know, deep down in my bones
that tonight is most definitely
   not the night

--

days are spent wishing for more time
hoping for new beginnings
yearning to feel skin stretched over thin bones

my days are spent
feeling spent

--

she refused to take the pills
   they made her body ache
and so
   she sits, staring into the portable sun
   on her desk of toppling memories

--

her muscles can't seem to burn enough
she trains for her war, she's getting ready
   to live her life
but she isn't feeling the pain
   where the **** is the pain

--

her veins are still too small,
her ribcage crooked,
her crossbite visible,
her dimples deep.

her collarbone shows,
her sweatshirts hang loose,
her toes are purple,
her head still bobs side to side
   when she gets lost in a song.

she is as she was
and she is as she will always be.

what am i doing to myself?

that surge of panic
a heart-stuttering, mouth-opening, clenching-of-the-jaw
   panic

the realization that my hands are to blame
   for the strength of my bones
   for the confidence in my eyes
   for the smile that comes so naturally now-

how do i take this back?

how could i be such a stranger to myself
how could i let my dreams fall away
how could i pack it all into a single shoe box
how could i leave her behind,
   after all she's done for me?

this line is much too thin to walk
and my bathophobia is making me stumble

one side of the fence houses
   fruit, sweat, strength, genuine laughter, newness of life
   and enough self-worth to inspire
the other contains
   blood, tears, collapse and destruction, a lack of sleep
   and enough regret to drown everyone i've ever loved
   and yet, in my eyes, it is comfort

how do i choose between health and safety?
why am i making myself destroy one life to start another?

will it even be worth it when someone else
steps out of the ashes?

i've met quite a few demons in my time,
but these are new.  i don't recognize these ones.
as much as their sickening structures and
their long dark hair tempt me to step up
and say hello, i'm not sure i want to.

as i said before, i've met quite a few demons already,
and i'm satisfied with keeping them alongside me,
keeping me strong when the sun hangs low and
pushing me forward when i've already fallen to the ground.
these demons are my familiars, they are my guardians.
and as much as i try to push them away,
they never let me leave, they stick by my side
no matter what trials i put them through.
and so for that, i will stay loyal to them.

these new figures, though, the ones
that have been lurking in my closet,
peeking in the mirror, hiding in the corner while i dream,
they aren't welcome here.
they aren't the type to stay loyal,
and they aren't the type to help me when i'm at my end.
so they can leave,
they can pack up their bags of numbers and names
and twisted mirrors
and hit the road.
i don't have time for ghosts and demons
who just want to spread their misery.
i have enough of my own, thank you.

she suddenly loses all control of herself.
her fingers are twitching and dropping razors
her jaw is clenched and her head is rattling
  with the secrets of her blood
  shhh,
     don't spill the (blood) beans

her eyes are unfocused and everything around her
  looks fifty feet away and yet
  inexplicably detailed
she can smell his shampoo
  on her fingers and
she can smell the scent of almonds
  on her forearms

her feet won't stop tapping the beat
  of a song she can't remember
her hair is tangling itself in her
  fists, bruised from contact with her hipbone
she wants to be
  destroyed
     by hands that she (trusts) loves

empty bottle resembles empty heart

   and empty head,

   and empty bed

--


every song is a punch to the gut
   reminding her that she must
  
   she must

   be better, be stronger, be confident

and yet relapse is on the road
   to the imaginary land of recovery

--


she develops an intense relationship
   with her lonesome bed

blanets reach out to keep her pinned
   -to pillows
   -in sleep
   -with tear-stained cheeks, chewed up nails,
    swollen shoulder blades

her mattress is desperate for the kisses and sighs
   she gives it night after night

and now she'll just work harder.  sweat dripping from every pore, from every crease in her skin and every bend of her bones.  she will become what she has always wanted to be: strong.

her hair is becoming lighter.  one by one, the wavy hairs on her tanned head are being bleached by the sun.  her skin smells like memories of shores and of heat and of bathing suits.  she smells beautifully.  and as her skin tans her smile stretches across her face, beaming and bright.

her stomach is shrinking, her arms are muscular.  she finds new outlets for sadness and rage in pushups and squats.  she lifts weights for fun and does sit-ups to feel the burn of her life slipping away.

she needs new clothes, her old ones don't fit right.  or maybe they fit the way they were always supposed to.  she buys new shirts, new shorts.  she feels good about herself.

and then she breaks and her arms are weak and her legs won't move.  she scratches at her sides, long red marks across her too thick frame.  her thighs are fat and she knows it.  her hair is frizzy and she knows it.  her back is cracked and bent in half and she knows it.  

and now she'll just work harder.

she is much less than necessary

laying in the dark, she is
replaying dreams and conversations
she remembers from 2008,
each clueing her in on why
this cycle began in the first place

she is much less than a necessity

and every once in a while,
when she becomes suddenly
and urgently in demand,
she is there
and she is his

but she is much less than crucial

the cycle she is living in
is made up of worrying
and waiting and tapping
her foot and holding
her breath
and then--
she is relieved for a moment,
maybe two, because for that
short amount of time,
she is indispensible--
and then suddenly she is
worrying, waiting,
scratching at her knuckles
and running out of air

she is much less than necessary
she is much less than important

you come in like fog in the early morning
before i know it, i'm lost again
i try to rub the sleep from my eyes,
but i soon realize that the opacity isn't external.

the mystery includes the following:
your whereabouts
how you wear your hair
the fullness of your kitchen sink
and also of your heart
how often you chew the collar of your shirt
which channels you watch
what time you go to bed and
if i'm bound to run into you again

someday


--

she sits on a park bench
wishing to be back in bed,
wishing to be back home,
wishing to be strong enough
to let him go.

--

"a couple months is nothing
in the big scheme of things"

she reminds herself of this
every time she lies in bed,
both at night when she pulls
the covers more tightly around her
and in the morning when she wakes.

"a couple months is nothing
when we have forever ahead of us"

--

she broke three nails while tying her shoes.
her headphones broke during her run.
the shower wouldn't get warm enough.
she bumped her hip into the table,
the stack of mail fell to the floor.
her pantry was empty.

and on the calendar, hanging on the wall,
was a date marked: September 18

'Baby comes home from Texas'

underneath, small scratchings read:

'make sure to buy some wine'

i'm not sure if i can remember how to write, but i want to relearn, just for you.  i want to have the freshest and happiest time of my life documented in some way, i want to write about you.  i need to learn how to write something cheerful instead of all the depressed and heartbroken crap i used to slap onto the page.  i want to capture your scent in words, your laugh in paragraphs.  i want you to be pressed not only between my pages, but between my sheets, between my arms, my legs, even.  i want your warmth to come through in my tone and your shy eyes, which have faded from a deep brown to a lighter hazel, to brighten up my words.  i want to be daring for you, to go do crazy stuff and laugh the whole way through.  i want you to see me as you never have before: silly, drunk, strong, motivated, outgoing, intimidating, naked.  i want you to turn your head back for a double-take every time i walk by with my chin held high.  you should be giddy each time i hold your hand or smile with my dimples showing.  when i hug you, you should pick me up off my feet and sway me back and forth like you did the other night.  i want you to be left in awe and lightheaded every time i kiss you.

what i'm trying to say is, i've been waiting for this since i was thirteen years old.  i've dreamed about you for the past eight years.  i want to watch you learn every inch of me, both psychologically and physically.  

when it comes down to it, i just want you.  and right now, i'm pretty impatient.  so come back home, and be quick about it.

3rd grade, 4th grade:
A sickening drop in my stomach,
My head is in the lowest gear.
I know that they live such different lives,
And yet we are connected by blood.
I can hear my pulse stop from the beat of their music,
I can feel my abdomen shrink into my spine as they yell at their mother,
I can see my hands shake even though we have the same blue eyes and same round cheeks.
I am terrified of their reality.


8th grade, 9th grade:
Strangers produce this physiological change in me:
Those with dark eyes, dark hair-
Those who are obviously different from me.
I am scared of realities I know aren't mine.


12th grade, 13th grade:
The reality I came to love is what frightens me the most.
The 4th grader within me is trembling in my palms,
She is crying in my ears,
Trying to cover up the sounds of your hiccups,
Trying to cover up the feeling of your tremors in my arms.
I trust you with my life,
But I don't trust you with your own.
I am frightened of a reality that I cannot protect.


14th grade, 15th grade:
Strength keeps me moving -
Both physical and mental.
I have carved out my own reality,
But lack an understanding of those I used to fear.
It's not in the beats of their music,
It's not in how you grind your teeth,
Or how you haunt me in my dreams.
I feel like my body is bruised -
I swear I can see the purple fade into green fade into pale skin.
I become absolutely afraid of what I still have the inability to do-
I cannot ever save anyone I feel for.
My fear is of not being a hero,
Not of you being the villain.


And sometimes
When I'm the villain,
I dream of heroes cutting me down.
I begin to believe in all-or-nothing, black-or-white justice
Where I am the only road block to a preferred reality.
So just cut me off, push me out, hit me down.
I don't want to make anyone ever feel the sickening drop
In body temperature
That has defined my idea of fear.
I don't want to be anybody's idea of failure.

she snapped right in half.

her eyes sprung a leak,
her hips are calling for blood,
her head is pounding,
                          pounding,
                                 pounding,
and her lips are cracking
with the conversations
of years past.

in such a short amount of time,
how can a girl completely and utterly break?

It's all about power-
  how much I hold &
  how much I'll use-
But you know I won't use any,
I'll just give it all to you.

Because how good of a friend would I be
If I rushed you?
If I drowned you in messages
  & notes taped to your door?
If I showed up in the middle of the night
  soaked in tears & carrying a lonely heart?
If I continued to drag you along
  out of fear that some other
  hands might hold you?

"You're still mine, you know?"

& even if I did all those things,
  what should I expect from you?
  A kiss?  A hug?  A back massage
  to soothe the pain of not being
  touched in months?

*You'll let me back in,
  you always do.
Because I know you still love me,
  & you have this delusion that
  we can still work it out,
  have kids,
  watch movies & brush the hair
  out of each other's eyes.

& so whenever I need to feel at home,
  whenever I need to see dimples,
  or a crossbite,
  or hair I used to compliment as "big",
  or smell that shampoo you've always used,
I can simply return to you-
Not as yours, of course,
  but as someone you wished was yours.

It's all about power.
& you give it all to me,
  every
  single
  time.

I was on a break from writing reports when I met her.
She was on the top of my building,
shakily sitting on the ledge,
the place where I used to gaze across the city.

Her hair was long and blonde,
whipping her skin as if chiding her
for sitting on the ledge of a 15 story building.
She didn't bother moving it out of her face,
and I noticed it was caught on
the corners of her lips and
the edge of her mascara covered lashes.

The scene felt like a dream-
never had I encountered someone up here
in my entire career.
She was wearing all red:
a flowing, sleeveless top,
a pair of wrinkle-free shorts,
her toes were painted to match.
The late summer sky
was beginning to blush,
reminding me of the boxed wine
I had left over from the engagement party
I threw the night before.

Her skin was milky,
and as I stared breathlessly
I wondered if I had ever seen her before.
I would've remembered her, surely.
I would've remembered her concerned eyes
and the arch of her eyebrows.
I would've recognized that slight scowl anywhere.

As she turned around,
my heart skipped a beat-
not because of how gracefully
and simply
she swung her bare feet over the ledge,
but because I was terrified
that she would fall off the building
and I'd never get to ask for her number.
Or why she wasn't wearing shoes
(this came as an afterthought).

She jumped oh so slightly
when she saw me.
(I panicked once again,
and awkwardly reached my arm out
as if to catch her if she started falling.)
We stared at each other for a moment,
until I broke the silence.

"Where are your shoes?"
As I spat out that question,
I realized she was probably wondering
how long I had been standing there,
dumbly staring at her.

I'm really good with the ladies, you see.

earrings were never put in this morning,
her necklace is sitting, tangled on a pile of receipts.
her shoulder blades are swollen
and her head is dragging her into bed much too early
  for a friday night.
pain and soreness and sweat have been the perfect release,
but now the body is breaking down,
the body is shutting down for the time being.
and yet she has to force herself
  to keep going.

I thought that tearing myself out of the cycle that defined us was what I needed-
  that it would help me,
  that it would make me feel less anxious and less doubting.

Now I'm in a whole new cycle,
and it's a path of waiting, in a different sense of the word.
I’m not waiting for you,
  or for a call, or a message.
I’m waiting for me to become strong enough
  to take control of my mind,
  to take control of my dreams and nightmares.

It’s a cycle with highs of
  mental sunshine, energy to run for miles, sore and smiley cheeks
And lows of
  curling up breathless on the carpet, twirling razors between fingers, anxiety enough to shove me from the bridge.

cracking you open,
right there on the street,
would give me the satisfaction
that i've never asked for.

you offered me your wrist for me
to slit
for weeks, for months, for years,
wishing i'd hurt you just so your tears
and self-hatred
could be "justified".

don't you know?
you didn't get the memo?
none of us have the justification
that we feel gives us permission
to destroy or be destroyed.

we're all wandering the alleys at night
hoping,
wishing,
that someone will stab us in the gut,
just because we wouldn't flinch
and wouldn't give up our wallet.

it's hard
because
i'm still so loyal to the part of me
  that wants to die
  and wants to destroy what i have.

it's hard
because
sometimes i wish that i
  could still be that person.

it's hard
because
i'm still so possessive of
  the darkness i'm trying to rid myself of
  the girl whose shoulder i used to cry on at night
  the boy who doesn't want to look me in the eye
  the razors i hide in my dresser
  the ways in which i hurt myself
  the bags under my eyes that remind me
  of how i want to be sick.

it's hard
because
i'm working to change the way
  i look at life
  and how my thought processes work.

it's hard
because
this fight looks like it'll last
  for the rest of my life,
  and i suppose i'm supposed to say
  that'll be a long time.

it's hard
because
i don't actually know what i want
  and that makes everything
  much more confusing
  than it needs to be.

it's hard
because
it's life.

the best thing that
ever happened to me,
and i miss you
with every fiber
of my being.


and it's sad to know
that we can never be
what we once were.

and that strong arm around my shoulders is all too familiar.

i was with you again last night, and i wonder if you even know about it.  you asked me how i've been, you smiled a little bit, even though i'm sure it hurts to see me after months of not even speaking.

do you know that we were together last night?  are you dreaming the same things as I am?  those cement stairs up to your room were no different, and my backpack was heavy with books and cans of diet coke.

almost every night we have these secret meetings that sometimes even i don't know about.  we make small talk, ask all the required 'how've you been's and 'how's the family's and, of course, the 'are you happy now's.  while i can't recall your responses or how we spent the rest of the night, i can perfectly hear your laugh and feel your hand on the nape of my neck.

when i wake up, i feel bad that i left you alone in the dream.  but then again, maybe you were the one who woke up.  maybe all those times i wake in the middle of the night are just times when you had to leave the dream to roll over in bed, or your dog scratched on your door.

maybe you don't even dream about me.  maybe i'm uncovering these memories as i sleep and can't help but replay them over and over again.  

either way, i hope you dream a good one tonight, kid.

it's one of the scariest feelings-
   realizing you're still okay with dying

and it's like no matter what you do
or what you say or what you think
all you can focus on is
   how your throat is closing
   how your hands are shaking
   how your eyes burn from the eyeliner bleeding and
   how your reflection is getting more and more hideous

and more bitter, too.

and even when you think you have it all figured out,
   you'll still get pulled down on to that couch
   and you'll still lay there in the morning, unable to get up
   and you'll still do mindless tasks until it's time to get back in bed.

tired isn't just what you feel,
   it's what you are.

and you'll never know the energy it takes
   to smile and laugh

and truly mean it.

she didn't actually want to leave,
but there's a point where the decision has to be made:
is it more worth it to
   try harder or
   let go?
and in her moment of clouded confidence
she made a choice.

and she let him go.

and in those moments when
she breaks down into
a mess of tears and a
pounding head
she can barely think of anything
except
"i wish i could take it all back
i wish i could just take everything back"

and she panics and panics
but nothing can fix it now.