call me an architect with shaking
hands, building buildings built
to crumble --
     if that what it takes to
     keep you, so be it;
     i'll find you in the rubble

he likes to call me dollface

and i let him unravel my threads,
because i'm not quite porcelain like he seems
to think - more so a rag doll, yarn for
hair, buttons for eyes, soft and
easy.

we started as a series of stolen things:
glances, secrets, moments in a walk-in freezer,
and i keep wondering how that all led us
here, stealing time as
he lights a bowl and i
dance circles in his living room

all the while he is watching
like he is in a museum, and i am
art behind a glass to
stare at, never
touch

he reaches out and falls short,
calls me over but never follows through,
pulls my threads and
sews me up again
each time
he calls me
dollface

i.
your hand on my elbow,
shoulder, wrist, and i
pretend not to
notice

ii.
you sing quietly on the
way home, like maybe i won't
hear you but
i always do

iii.
call me doll, and that's
okay,
i can be yours to
play with

iv.
we smoke together for the
first time, and you blow
rings, and i dance
for you

v.
chew me up, spit me
out, it's fine just as long as you
don't watch me clean my
messes

vi.
you mention your girlfriend's
name and i
crumble

i.
i spent my nights writing wishes into
paper cranes after we broke down, a repetition
of ink to paper - fold, press, release -

your name, your name, your name,
became habit every time i picked up the pen

ii.
when i dream of walking through
haunted houses, i hear voices through the
open windows, i swear it is you saying
come home, baby, come home. 

a draft cuts through each whisper and i pretend
it is your breath on my neck,
that your hands will follow, but when i turn
it is only the breeze from a crane beating its wings.

iii.
when it storms, the dock we used to
share secrets on floods - my fingers scratch
at my thighs like i am picking apart the wooden planks,
my skin splinters in all the places i have ever
been touched by you.  

i fold myself into a ship and sail where you can't
follow

we lounge in the backseat to
wait out the rain.

your fingers still against my
thigh, grapefruit juice drips down my chin,
and we stare ahead like this is
what we were meant for --

you pack another bowl, lana sings
on, jazzy and sweet, and i

i overflow

i hear the phone ring when
it doesn't, the door open
when it's locked, the
light switch flip when
it's off and i turn around and
look for you
still

we go out after the first storm
like explorers in new terrain, and
these steps are gentle and uncertain,
this world is new.
it is still grey but you point to a patch
of sun between the clouds and say,
that's what you look like beside
everyone else and i used to think
i stuck out like a **** in the midst of flowers
but you make me feel like i am a butterfly
amongst unchanging caterpillars.
a gust of wind pushes rain drops off the
tree leaves - they cling to your mouth like
fresh dew or sweat beads, and i
want to kiss them clean