I fell in love with a girl
one summer during high school.
she had bronze skin
and long fingers
and a meek giggle
that would crescendo beautifully
whenever things went just right.
we were happy
for a while.
she made me a mixtape for my birthday
with all the songs that reminded her of me
including the folk song that was playing
when we first kissed.
it was awkward
and nervous and shy
but so were we.
I still listen to it on bad days.
I swear the best days of my life
were spent on a bean bag chair
on her bedroom floor
with her hand in mine
and no words being spoken
because there were no gaps
that words needed to fill.
sometimes we would paint each others' nails
so we would match
and my patience would be tested
as we waited for the paint to dry.
I wanted to touch her
but I didn't want to smear my nails
after she had painted them so delicately.
I had her love on my hands
and she was a part of everything I created.
she got me a stuffed animal when she was on vacation
I swear it was the longest week of my life.
it was a teddy bear with a purple ribbon
and I named him Conor
after our favorite musician.
I still sleep with it on bad days.
but nothing ever stays the same.
we drifted and moved on and found new lives
without each other
and now I barely know her name.
I wonder how she's doing sometimes
but I don't have her phone number anymore.
her old one's out of service
but I still call it on bad days.

you look like a mirage
as snowflakes cling to your pale skin
and I don't know if I should believe it
until I'm in your arms.
you've gotten taller
and your red mane is unrulier than ever
but your lips still taste of cigarettes and mints.
you smile your familiar smile
that seems to tug my lips along with it
and your childish laugh
erupts from your throat
as if nothing's changed.
the scenery is frozen and white
and my neighbor's christmas lights
shine brightly in the background
as a reminder of the holiday.
you joke about stealing
the candy cane ornaments across the street
and you grab my hands
with a familiar roughness
and though your fingers are the same
the spark that once
set me on fire
is gone.
my stomach feels as cold
as the snow that continues to coat us
and I look to you with bewildered eyes.
Merry Christmas,
I don't love you anymore.

The girl I love
has demons inside her head
and beneath her demure facade
is a turbulence
no one should ever know.
the same eyes that light up
when she talks about her
photo shoots
or coffee
or me
can darken in an instant
and I can't do anything
but hold her as she cries.
the taste of tear drops
on her lips
is bittersweet
and the salty tang
reminds me
that this is my battle
too.
sometimes she'll call me
in the middle of the night
and I know that something's wrong
as soon as I hear her ringtone
(our song)
because even though
her voice is the most gorgeous sound
I've ever heard,
she would rather carefully craft her thoughts
with texts
than open her heart
candidly.
I answer the phone
with shaking fingers
and ask, "Are you okay?"
there is a pause
and I swear to god
there are a million deaths
and a million births
in that space of silence.
"Baby,
the demons are talking
and I don't think
I can take it."
her voice is a hoarse shadow
of its usual smooth sweetness
wounded by chokes and sobs.
"Everything will be okay."
my words are as much reassurance
to myself
as they are to her.
"I'm on my way."
and when I find her
I hold her tight
and I'm relieved she's still breathing.
but the familiar glint
of a razor blade
stained with red
catches my eye
and I start to cry
too.
I pull her beneath the safety of the blankets
and kiss her forehead
as our fingers entwine
and I start to sing her favorite songs
as a mantra to ward off the demons.
she's soon asleep
and I untangle our limbs
and give her one last kiss
before standing unsteadily.
without hesitation
I grab the demon's weapon
from her nightstand
and shove it in my pocket
because I know the trash cans aren't safe.
something snaps inside me
and I throw open her drawer
to reveal dozens more.
I take those, too,
and I search the rest of her room
tearing through her photographs
and vinyl records
and the finger paintings we made together
to collect every blade I could find.
I soon find myself in her bathroom
ripping open her medicine cabinent
grimacing at the bottle emblazoned with her name
full of the pills she never takes.
I collapse onto the cold tile of the ground
knees drawn to my chest
eyes stained with tears
pockets full of razor blades
heart devoid of hope.
The girl I love
has demons inside her head
and they talk to me
too.

the grass is coarse beneath us
but your hand is smooth in mine.
the summer humidity
has run its fingers through your hair
and the makeup that you didn't need
is smeared beneath your eyes
but you're still beautiful.
we don't speak any words
but the rising and falling of your chest
says everything we need to know.
we look to the inky black canvas
of the night sky
pricked by tiny pinholes of light
that are actually far larger
than we could ever comprehend.
the fireflies enact a light show
as a maestro cicada plays his concerto
and this summer setting seems perfect
but nowhere near as perfect as you.

I know a girl
with wandering eyes
who paints her dreams
on giant canvases.
her lopsided ponytail
is secured by a paintbrush
and I swear she looks most beautiful
when her lips are pursed
and nose scrunched up
as she tries to get that final detail
just right.
disheveled and sleep-deprived
with coffee stains on her tired smock,
she brings to life
intricate images of her subconscious.
detailed landscapes
free of the burden of mankind
with creatures whose names
I find unpronounceable
but they roll off her tongue just fine.
one day
in her cluttered studio
her paintbrush meets my cheek
with a fiery line of red.
I catch her hand in mine
and she meekly says,
"I dreamt that you were mine
so I thought I'd paint you,
too."
our lips touch
and the paint smears
as we are brought to life
among her dreams.