In the silence now is where
I must struggle to remember again.
The galaxies on my arms
and your tiger stripes will
exist as testaments to the
strength we almost learned to
lose (close your eyes and
hold my hand again).

You laugh has slipped into
every cup of coffee I make and
the slivers of my eyes;
I am stuck now, again, wanting

My words are stale from
overuse, but how else could I
convince you that you are
jewels to me? Stale, again,
again, and soft, and here
again I am left risking
everything for the safe delivery
of one more miracle

the butterflies in my stomach
still haven’t died as the seasons changed
from the first time I realized
we were home
until now.
I can still feel
the fluttering below my ribcage;
I can see the frost on
my tongue.
I never meant to ****
the nature in you by
filling your veins with
what I breathe out,
I never meant to personify
the coldness of winter
like this

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.