A yellow, Klimt-colored aura,
knuckles brushing,
the scent of old money. Vaguely
I get a feeling that I'll remember you
for all of the rest of my life.

My mother thinks I'm not myself with her anymore (because I'm not, and how could I be?). I don't miss the child who danced in department stores, caught caramels from July 4th floats. I am not her, and she is not me. Her sparkling smile has lapsed away, eroded into the sexiness I attempt to allude now. As if being fuckable was something more enriching. At twenty, I'm smaller than I ever was before. Weaker, even, because of my smallness. I've been gripping onto the edge of the daily routine, and felt my palms ache at the attempt. My hands burn, rope cuts skin. I'm forgetting what's within now. A certain strength I could muster at one time has all but left me with a wet kiss on the cheek. Life sneers Try again later, sweet heart. Test your luck one more time...

She is a wet newspaper that you can't just leave on the sidewalk, because the headline caught your attention.
I wish this bottle could talk, too. I wish it could tell your secrets.
It's over and over again, the same dark haired man who loves good music,
straight smiling and gentle expressions,
I dip my hand in, smooth as a bowl of marbles.
I love the feeling of the eyes on me, so I make a disgusted face.

The muse is a vassal,
she pours herself out with a smile
when all she wants is to take herself back
and pull the words, the inspiration she has procured
with her body back out of those artists' mouths.
the muse is an empty shell ,
rocked and torn, picked up and down,
thrown on the canvas by hasty hands,
sparks painted into her eyes.
The muse desires to be seen and understood
for more than what she has been used for.

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through...
-Emily Dickinson*

And I do smile, the white bright Colgate chiclets
stretch under my lips. The crooked thing, the
clever turn of my mouth,
we all pass a point in life when this is a means to an end.
Stop. Do not collect 200.
Again. Again, I thought "Send me straight to hell"
because it's not fair for me to feel this way any more.
I want to shoulder the brunt of it and throw it up and down,
white linens to the wind.
A dramatization of who I have come to be,
fueled and fired by alcohol and lack of sleep.

A stuck Lipton in the vending machine,
"I want to start a social movement of direct experience"
Sure. We'll do that. Let me get back. . .
let me get back to this blue screen for a bit. I want a change.
I want to see some change! Let's throw our
phones away and start over. Depression falicitates our  
efforts, but I had my pleasure. I had my kicks though.

Picking a wound,
knowing you the way I did.
It was like,
I can't get my words right. It was like, knowing I
wouldn't be able to open the doors to the house
I used to live in,
like wine rings on the hardwood never disappearing,
ringing in my ears after standing next to the speaker
bump, bump, bump, bump, bump
I'll dance on you, make it look like I'm doing you a favor.
I'll kiss you at the corner again,
and leave your hand on my face
for one last time.
Pull away, knowing I will think about this fuckery
a month later.

O sister, and young wife and her groom.
the anguish, hot candle wax spills like tears.
the older brother. he is the strong one, the family
knows they have won,
"he beat me in everything, he got married first,
he found his calling first, and he left life first"

I know I require something deeper because I don't have *** dreams,
but my fantasies involve being held by someone who makes me feel small, yet important. Precious and desired, wanted (coveted) but secure in a trust that only can be described in my subconscious as warm. he's warm. fact: he loves me so much that he waits for me to get off my shift, kisses my neck and cradles me to him like i'm glass.
I wake up missing something I never had a grasp on. I lazily pull that feeling out, examine it like an antique scarf. Thinking, *what a life. what a life to know that i could make someone feel whole, and they could convince me that my presence is necessary for the world to continue turning. that all Life needs is tenderness in a person, in a human connection that could go on for Ever.

Here I am, dancing,
plastic wine glass full of that purple
dream, that cabaret sleep. By the deejay yelling
requests to be played.
Then there's photos, there's selfies, there's
a hand on my *** because "What? It's funny!"

Alone. Again. So alone, I fear that I might go insane
from want, from jealousy, as they waffle their fingers
together, cleanly. I watch. I dance some more,
moving my hand through my hair because I know how that makes
some men feel. And you? And you. Not here, but as loud as the
wind that wakes me up the next morning.
Not here.

when am i going to be
enough

She lacks confidence, she craves admiration insatiably. She lives on the reflections of herself in the eyes of others. She does not dare to be herself.
-Anaïs Nin*

I had a good day because the woman at Starbucks spelled my name right,
because the boy at work recognized that I doubt myself before I even finish an answer to a question,
which struck me because
who notices?
I had a good day because I carried myself to the gym, where I watched myself in other's metal eyes and cringed, where I saw my reflection in the windows and wished,
oh. You know.
That I didn't take up so much room and that my appetite would decrease,
and I sit here now thinking about food and wondering
when will it end? The constant whining of my vanity
and needy innards screaming "shrink me"!
The sullen desires build up and well over, and I become a vessel again. I become
something less.

here, i offered a small thing,
a weak thing. a thing that doesn't speak
or move, but briefly feels warm to a palm's touch.
i offered it so slowly, without realizing consciously what i'd done,
but when i do notice...

when i do notice,
my palms shake as i watch it spill to the floor,
regret twinges all over and i
made such a huge mistake. such a huge mistake.
i took a chance. i risked, i risked because
life tells you

reach, reach, reach
whispers
don't think, do
paints a possibility portrait, makes you fall in love with ideas
and then you stumble through
you trip.
you offer it,
and you can't take it back.

i'm completely devoted to falling asleep slowly,
those 3 pm's, laundry mountain on my bed,
dreaming/thinking possibilities and plans
and too tired to have anxiety about to-morrow's
and to-do's.
i drift in and out of consciousness,
the upstair's neighbors' crisp footsteps
thieve me from dreams
but i always settle, and still,
and drift back to my dewy and downy snooze.

calls from dark cars, the fear that grips my stomach when I walk the shortcut, the movements behind me always
throw my heart around rough and sandpapery. I am tired of being

embarrassed, having to explain myself, having to ask for forgiveness from others because my body warrants these men’s shark bites, these fins in the water

circling, making everyone around me feel uncomfortable. If I could take a knife and cut out pieces of me to hand to every menace in the night who slowed down to stare at my moving body,

I would give those pieces to them, blooded, dripping, raw with human soul and expression because I am
not his “girl” and I am not “babe” and I am not “****” and I am not whistles from the alley
and I am not drunken breath on lips,
I am afraid

to bear a girl one day, and have her carry the weight of undoubted beauty, of sparkling eyes, of lips that sing and announce and scream. but I know her shoulders will be strong
and her middle fingers will grow to be made of steel

I'm itchy-throat,
ripping open packets of tea,
waiting for the sickness to come.
Sweating at night,
shivering through wind to class,
(southern winters are very real)
My body aches the same way,
all through my limbs,
and I regret not kissing you more before
this overtakes me.

I love the way you talk out of the side of your mouth, like you could somehow reel the words you say back in,
throw out a line, before it's too late.
I wrap my arms around you before you can react and it's just my way of saying that
I love the syllables, the speech that softens your expression,
the fox-light in your eyes
and your curved lips on mine.

I imagine you foal-legged on the first day of the week,
waking to meet the filtered morning
and sipping chai tea. I
watch you cross the persian carpet floor and
pick the person you want to be today.
The summer skin is now dried away, and
your powder face is ready,
the fresh peach cheeks
and the curve of a crooked smile
grow goosebumps on boys' arms,
as you swing yours to class.

to undo a body, is not to undress her
but to

speak as though each word was a
truth in itself
and each smile on your face is a gospel.
keep assurance by never walking behind her
(don't ***** the animal inside)
and leave out the words associated with the
past and family, and why
she crosses her arms walking down the sidewalk.
no questions,

but kissing, that is an honest thing,
that is a piece of scripture.

the vice that sets into my blood stream,
the sin that allows me to sin some more and
comfortably sits just below my skin

to let me know i can do this,
and i can say anything, be
anyone. the bottle knows my body the way
fingers do, the way lovers know their
person's ugly marks and

softens their cruel words. it is my lips that rest
on a gentle edge, a glass edge,
and tips my chin to meet the encouraging kiss.

some kind of weirdness about the way we connected. i swear a sweet whisper was poured down from a distant planet, a loving hand brushed over the milk of our lives and joined us two, floating,

oblivious in the white. we joined the others in the stars and it didn't feel wrong. it was meant to be, a smile shared captures an infinity

see,
i don't give myself away any more
in the form of dark kisses or
jumbled conversation or
merlot, or cote de rhone
(let me explain)
my words sweat out, like oils on my nose.


wake up dry mouth wanting,
someone to hold
and i turn to my lines, i turn to my soul
and bare it on a blank screen.
and i forget what he would have meant to me
because i don't need it

you sitting on the edge of the bed
polishing your shoes with boot black,
and I loved you then, so wise from the shower,
and I loved you many other times
and I have been, for months,
trying to drown it,
to push it under,
to keep its great red tongue
under like a fish
-anne sexton*

the smell of you, my long island ice tea breath, a single exchange
reaching over several feet
of club space.
i haven't seen you in years,
but in front of me is a young man who dove too deep in a concrete pit,
who needed too much,
who drove his mother to depression again,
and now he's smoking with his brothers
because his own isn't there,
because his own flesh ****** up and
has a baby now.  i wait for the red to reach my face,
the embarrassment of the reminder that i loved someone who wasn't ready
for my body out of the shower, or my  2 am binge,
or my breath

i'm born out of a habit of self-destructive patterns

i'm born out of a foreigner's vacation
i am the product of anxiety, of wealth ill-gotten,
of american 90's dreams and excuses

i'm shaken like a passenger on a wooden roller coaster
i'm mixed like "mutt" like "i don't know what you are"
like exotic
like *****

Eating brownies to feel inspired, then look at the **** I write the next day
stone cold, naked in bed, dining hall food resting neatly in an ordered manner.
I wish he would go down on me the same way he probably thinks about me,
and this isn't high school but I feel like every one knows something I don't. This is hell.
this image is enlarged to show texture, this swisher is full of a mixture,
big yawns and hot skin. I wish I was his. i wish the idea would cross itself off my list.

you act like a
martyr. a Catholic girl who can't fix me, who finds my cracks so appealing,
collecting friends to repair like
misfit toys on "i'm so ****** up" island
and you want me to hate you anyway,
the way you say "my jaw hurts" after ******* **** the night before (no one's **** is that big)
and the way you blame me for your failed classes
and the way i don't try enough to be the girl you used to be friends with.
your hypocrisy, your hypocrisy is the cross you bear

do you think of me as much as I think of you,
running circles in my mind like a rolling penny
and diving into my skin like a rash.
a beautiful raspberry
bruising my lips, staining my mouth bright pink.
flushed cheeks are flowers,
are carnations, are cheap and fast and loving,
blooming (and can be picked up at the grocery store for 5 dollars)

sprints on the university track,
January chill causes steam to
rise from my head and arms.
my leggings feel too small now and
the Gatorade tastes like chaser,
I'm getting the hang of it
finally.
you push me, telling me "Durham's got the hills"
you've got the calves, you get the girls,
and I'm the one who runs with you
I'm the one who tries keeping up.

what can I do with a sleepy heart,

what can i do when it is sprained and strained,

a heart that makes me feel crippled and dazed.
I can’t react to his words,
his lips,
his smile does not warrant mine. Sinatra plays in my head
and breaks up the black hole in my chest, grinding it away,

"good bye, good good good bye"

it’s just one of those nights

fireworks sprinkled over 8:57 PM, sounding

as if the sky was a glass and the shots that rang

out were giant ice cubes falling into it, like

ice cubes the size of my head. I don’t know what

blind people dream about, but it might be of feelings instead,

the thunderous rush of a honey whiskey handshake

to your mouth. a kissing-so-much your stomach turns

to make things other than butterflies for once.

the feeling of a hot spliff between your fingertips, inhale in.

say hey, and motion to the door,

where the cupid’s playing matchmaker and the men in red cars

whistle at girls in black skirts. Where you wish you could join in

so badly it hurts, but you

are you and you’ll never belong in that room.

what do we
do, when
apathy
lures us into its arm-caves.
we push back,
we continue to do the
things we should do,
we tell apathy that its arms
are too cold and carry
on.

for the next twelve months, i will become an open flame. i will spread my body, i will raise my voice, become a wildfire,
from the inside out.
i promise this to myself,
each tear that swims and spills is never again a sign of weakness
but an expression of my heart, that my mask has burned away to show my new skin, my scar skin, my healing.