i used to think my body would look prettier in a casket
but i spent hours looking at it in a mirror anyway.
sometimes I feel like my body doesn’t want me in it anymore,
or like my mind is trying to trick me into leaving.
my aching limbs and tired heart make me feel like
my body has been around for longer than I’ve been in it.
it's only just now starting to feel like it's mine
because when enough grown men yell at you from their pickup trucks
and enough frat boys shout at you from their porches,
you start to learn that your body isn’t really yours,
and it took me too long to be upset about that.
because when i stopped eating, i was the only one
who could feel that pit in my stomach,
and the only one who had to live in my exhausted body.
and i’m still not sure if i liked that or not,
but i do know that it made me feel strong.
and it took me too long to unlearn that feeling.
that safe feeling i’d get when i was all wrapped up in my hip bones and clavicles
and the waist i was always so scared to spill out of.
it took me years to learn that a cold heart isn't a blessing
but my feet still haven't gotten the message
i carry worry in my teeth
and shyness in my ankles,  
i’m filled to the brim with feelings that
mix together so much, i can't tell which is which anymore,
and i overflow so often that i should be drowning in saltwater by now.
my heart races so fast,
it's a miracle i’m still alive.
but on those days when i’m held together with safety pins and good intentions
when i wear lipstick like armor and couldn't look you in the eyes if i tried
i will curl my knees against my chest
and hope that that will be enough to keep me in my body.
my body, that’s filled with endless love and cruelty
but not enough courage
it’s an argument i can’t win
it's a house i’m locked inside of,
but i’m not planning on going anywhere.

In Oklahoma,
Bonnie and Josie,
Dressed in calico,
Danced around a stump.
They cried,
"Ohoyaho,
Ohoo" ...
Celebrating the marriage
Of flesh and air.

I look back at the clutter of the shadow,
Still black with interruptions of window,
and great, heaving plumes of molten air.
The glass is oiled up with
the dirt of love.
And I am surprised to see myself suspended there,
In a web of smoke and grime,
Waving back at myself.

I never told you this story:

The story is, when we first me, first falling in love, I had a choice. I was at a party, with my friends, and you texted me. You wanted to get drunk, bring a friend and show off some new guy you met.

And I was talking with a beautiful French girl.

She was impeccable, with long dark hair and she scared many of the guys away with the intensity in her stare. Her accent made every word a masterpiece, and her style strict Parisian. She did it all like we could do it, but she did it differently. And she could dance.

I asked my friend what I should do.

He took a drink and told me “If she comes man, she’ll only want to dance with you.” He said this as he glanced at the beautiful French girl smiling at me, and I smiled back at her. And that sealed the deal in the kitchenette.

So I walked backed to her, and she held out her hand. She pulled me in close, and I could smell her hair. She smiled as she taught me, laughed as I failed, and it took a while to get the hang of it, but I finally prevailed.

And I danced with the French girl.

I ignored your texts, blocked your calls. And it was her that I was texting on my walk home, forgotten about you at a bus stop far from home. It was the feel her of her body against mine I missed, not yours.

And even though I later chose you, I later fell for you, and I later lost you, that night, I chose her. I chose the dream over reality; someone knew over a scene well seen; I chose love, I chose me.

And do I regret that decision?

Well, out of all the decisions I made which lead me to loving you, I have absolutely no regrets in dancing with the beautiful French girl.

Maybe it was a precursor, a sign I should have taken. But to me, it’s just a memory, and a memory I’ll never forget, a memory I'll always have about dancing with the French girl in the downstairs kitchenette.

Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.

I am the stone that is thrown
that hits the water
causing a ripple
a tiny wave
across a giant ocean
touching shore
washing over tiny particles
molecules and micro-organisms
drowning some
bringing life to others