[A prose poem]

I used to have long hair. I chopped it off. It bothered me.
       But I was also numb, and sometimes ardent; I reserved my anger in patient and bursting wine skins. I was sad and didn't know it.
      Listen, I'm not the same. I'm sorry. I now have posters on the walls of my room. And I still pick pieces off my lip, but I wear chapstick too. And I've started to drink coffee again, with sugar. And I've also learned some french, Je m'excuse.
      What page number were we in? All I know is I'm not there anymore. I've known you through some invincible years, but I'm starting to see the fray. Like split ends.
      I'm not good with scissors though. This is not a threat, you need to know that. Because I'm not good with scissors. Please know that.
      And know that I still love you– that's still the same. But, here, I am this, I am this. This is who I am. Is that okay?

[A prose poem]

I need to tell you about someone you should know.

She never uses her index finger.
          Well, that's not true anymore. She gave up on the quirk, and now uses the fullness of her thin fingers. They're wounded though. You have to know her hands.
        She picks the skin on the borders of her nails, as if the lack of red were mediocre. She needs passion, she does. And roses. They cascade on the right wall of her room.
        See, there's something about people who tape roses on their walls. I can see her scarred little fingers, pushing adhesive on the flowers.

Prowling by. One paw, one paw–it hunts slowly.

[A prose poem]

       I never loved apples. They taste just okay. But I looked up "how to be anorexic" on google once, and an ana-pro idiot said we should imagine food as monsters. "Take an apple, for example. Imagine it turning into a dead pig. Imagine it rotting. Worms coming out of it."
      I still don't like apples. But I still like chocolate.

[A prose poem].

I see you've got the ropes.
        Somehow you adapted. There, your green tea; you filled your thermos last night, preemptively. Your fingers have always been awkward too. They incline to the chubby side, your fingers. And they hold the thermos with strength, like they hold everything– except for your papers and your keyboard. You don't grip those. You tap. Are you aware?
       Remember the balcony? You had too much wine, obviously. Your rolling on the floor from one end to the other turned legendary. But time rolls by, and so do tobacco leaves on papers, and you hate those two things.
       You took the balcony along. You've got the hang of your schedule, where and how to tunnel your way to class; you get up as soon as your alarm goes off. No snooze. The ropes are gripped tightly by your fingers, and I don't know why.

Child, please look up.
I know you don’t want to listen.
But you will, you will take what suits you.
I know you well.
Stop, wait,
You don’t need to blur the lines.
There is no black and white–
I know you’ve learned that the hard way,
but just wait– don’t shade just yet.

There is a certain grey.
But don’t rush– hush,
Put the paintbrush down.
You don’t need to sin to understand.
Child, I’m sorry you’re so lost.
Take it from me:
You’ll be fine.
You’ll be fine.

For there she was.*
Upright, bliss.
Blooming petal,
do its wish.

What a day,  

sounds, sounds
and people,
she says.

Dalloway, her petals,
the ones she picked,
herself.

She breathes
air like silk.
Details, dresses,
Precious petal,
does not know.

And the patient,
the open palms,
wait for prayers–
prayers, perhaps.

What a day.

*Mrs. Dalloway said,
she would pick the flowers
herself.