Thirteen is a fragile age
For both boys and girls
Not only for girls
But mostly for girls
When you are a female,
By the time you’re thirteen
You already have a basic idea of what you’re supposed to be like:
What you should wear, how you should behave, what you should say
By the time you’re a thirteen-year-old girl in the year 2008
There is an unspoken list of rules,
A non-verbal inventory of criteria that you should have met
By your fourteenth birthday
You must shave your legs,
You mustn’t wear dresses above knee length,
You must lose your virginity
By the time that I was thirteen years old,
All of my closest girl friends had lost their virginities
Albeit, they were fourteen and I was thirteen because I was a year ahead
But that is a different story for a different poem
This poem is about ****
I remember hearing my friends talk about how they had lost their virginities
In their beds, in the shower, in the backseat of his car
But when I was thirteen, I wasn’t worried about ***
I didn’t want to lose my virginity
Not in a bed, or a shower, or the backseat of a car
No, when I was thirteen, I was highly preoccupied with other things
I was worried about love and what love meant
I wanted to feel love in my heart and in my head
Before I ever felt it in my ******
And let it be said, now, half a decade later
That *** and love are not always the same thing
I wish I would have known that then
I wish I would have known that when he put his hand down my pants
While I was only trying to enjoy a movie in the company of my boyfriend
A man who I thought I could trust
Excuse me, a boy who I thought I could trust
I wish I would have known that when he whispered daggers in my ear
Telling me that he loved me enough to “grace” me with his touch
I wish I would have known that when he pushed me into the couch
With the rough insides of his palms
And gained entry to a gate
That I never gave him the key to
And I wish I would have known that when I asked him later,
“What just happened?”
Too stunned and in pain to cry
And he replied,
“It’s what girlfriends and boyfriends do.
It’s what you do when a girlfriend loves her boyfriend.
You do love me, right?”
And I said yes
When I went back to his house a week later,
I told him that I felt ashamed, and guilty, and *****
Because I didn’t want to lose my virginity
And I had told him that again and again and again
And I was enraged
I was angry because I didn’t have a word for what had happened to me
I had been taught that **** only happens in dark alleys
Not in the basement of your boyfriend’s home
I had been taught that **** only happens when you wear short skirts and halter-tops
Not jeans and a sweatshirt
I had been taught that rapists were old men who I didn’t know
Not my sixteen-year-old boyfriend of two years
And he responded to my anger
But instead of pushing me into the couch,
He pushed me into the wall
And then into the floor
And then out of his life
And you would think,
“Good, this is where it ends. It’s all over now.”
But let it be said, now, half a decade later,
That for survivors of ****** assault, it is never over
The story continues with Planned Parenthood staff, two years later
Having to be the ones to break the news to me
That it was not normal relationship behavior
And hearing the nurse, outside the door, tell another nurse,
“We’ve got another one.”
The story continues with my father asking me,
“Are you sure you didn’t just have *** with him? Were you asking for it?”
The story continues with my sixteen-year-old classmates
Calling me a ***** *****
Because a friend of my ****** decided to tell the entire school
About what had happened to me in that basement three years prior
The story continues after I broke up with my ex-fiancé
And he befriended my ******
In an attempt to **** me off for “breaking his heart”
The story never ends for ****** assault survivors
Statistically, a quarter of the women reading this poem
Will be or have been ***** at some point in her lifetime
And for those women, the story will not end
So now the question presents itself:
How can we end the story?
Therefore, as the author of this **** poem,
I take responsibility for this question,
And I answer it this way:
In the same way that I learned
When I was thirteen years old
That love and *** are not always the same thing,
You must teach your boys
That yes and silence are not always the same thing.

I like to think that I tried.
But at the same time
they used to like to think that the world was flat
and that green eyes meant that you were cursed.
I also like to think that I would go to the end of the galaxy for you,
just so that I could fetch a few stars and bring them back
to show you that not every light is burnt out yet.
I like to think that the scars on both of our wrists
will fade with time and will heal with care.
But so far, the redness has not subsided.
Your voice is still ringing in my ears.
I’m not sure what you are saying, but you’re there.
And you’re here.
For the most part, you are everywhere.
And if I could spend one more restless night
curled in your arms so that I could kiss the inside of your wrist
and hope for magic to appear, I could die tomorrow
and be okay with that.
My tombstone could be painted yellow
and my corpse could grow flowers.
All because I hoped for a little magic
while the howling wind touched the windowpane
and your breath quickened on my shoulder.
I would let the coolness of your eyes
take my memory back to the Bahamian sea.
I would let the flutter of your eyelashes remind me
of the rainbow parrotfish and the fire coral.
I would let the salty softness of your skin sink into mine
so that maybe I won’t be so sharp anymore.
I would let myself drown in you
and this time
I wouldn’t call for help.
I would save my last gasping breath
to let you know how beautiful you are.
Then I would succumb to your sea
and I would sink to the bottom
to let my corpse plant flowers in you.

I’m rummaging through the sounder parts
Of my brain trying to find
The important parts of
Where I touched you and where I felt you
How I touched you and how I felt you
Like old photos

I’m trying to configure every speck
Of color in your eyes that I saw when you looked
Into the sunset through the window –
There were blues and greens
And everything in between

When I roll over
To lie face down in bed
My sheets smell like the warm parts of your neck
So I reach down to grab your hand
And lace our fingers together
Like grape vines
But all I end up with
Is a fistful of duvet

This morning I woke up with the echoing
Of your voice calling me “honey”
Tonight I will fall asleep with the echoing
Of your voice saying my name
In the morning I will warm up
With a cup of coffee
And with the image in my head
Of how bright your eyes become
And wide your smile gets
When you talk about the ocean
And how the barnacles would get stuck to your feet
And how beautiful
The colors of the sunset
Looked against the evening sea

When the universe
And all her baby stars
Souped down

In clotted clumps
Tightly wound in
Golden-plummed roses –

This is when the sea
Ascended, and all your
Mother’s tribes descended.

(In a pop,
Not a bang.)
“Red paint and crushed

Blackberries will drip
Like plasmic syrup
Down your arms and

Into your bellies.
You will hear the Earth
Sing a lullaby,

Soft as clouds making love.
Our canyons will rupture
And we will bathe in the gush

Of purple-blue paper water.”
But then the sky exploded.
And pellets of dusty snow

Climbed down
And pierced my flesh,
Froze my core,

And numbed my Native voice –
Hushed my sweet mother,
Dyed my ancestors’ blood

To match the soiled snow.

You remind me of the window
You remind me of a mirror
I want to get drunk and
Forget everything
That ever happened
I want to get drunk and
Live life that way
Happy and meaningless
Why did you touch me
Why did you even look at me
I was never yours
You aren’t even yours
But I am mine
I need more alcohol
To wash away things
That weren’t supposed to be my problems
That weren’t supposed to happen
I can still feel you on my skin
I don’t know who I’m talking about anymore
Is it you or you
Or is it me
Please get away from me
Wait no please
Wait no you’re a coward
And I am strong
Ish
I can pretend at least
Why don’t I mean anything to anyone
What did I do in a past life
That poisoned me in this one
I must have killed a man
I used to do so many nice things
I used to make my parents proud
I used to be able to count the ones I loved
On many hands
And those I hate on one
It’s switched now
What happened to me
I’m falling apart
Or maybe I have already fallen apart
Maybe you’re just the last piece
You are the last switch
To be flipped
Then I lose
Everything

make love to a poet and you will feel
everything
all at once
as if the earth’s core
has shattered
and all the planets have been stretched into
long ropes
and intertwined
along the milky way
make love to a poet and you will feel
as though each verse
is inside of each panting moan
and as though each rhythm
is within each twisting ******
and your body will become numb
as it contorts
to turn existentialism into a heart beat
make love to a poet and you will experience
every word ever created
by each mouth brought to life
grazing your bare flesh
with each centimeter of their fingertips
meeting the quivering abdomen
and although every word is with you in this moment
you will beg the universe
to let you speak them
because when you make love to a poet
you become one
with a language
one unspoken and one the vice
you will melt into song
when you make love to a poet
all the love that ever was
or ever will be
becomes trapped within a single drop of sweat
and all the fear
that was summoned for the world to share
becomes confined within each sharp gasp
make love to a poet and you will feel the
creation of a galaxy inside of you
the stars will cling to your veins
and they will dance in your blood
and the planets will be caught in the gravity
of your lungs
and so you will breathe in moons
and breathe out aries
and asteroids will blast through your throat
for the rest of your being
if you make love to a poet

A world of filtered communication
Silver screens and robotic dreams
Our heads filled with visions of false identities
Ambiguous, superficial
Ludicrous, artificial
Mounting themselves above our fireplaces
We live the way we are raised to live
We see what we are taught to see

A flushed salmon rushes upstream
Thrashing and bruised when Ha'nih catches him
We thank the Gahonga, we break, we eat
The tumultuous quiver of the earth
As a spritz around the fire ensues
Peace, essence, and comfort is the way of life
We live the way we are raised to live
We see what we are taught to see

I. Constellations have gathered
about a point
of implied dexterity,
within which they drip
through a cerebral fissure
and onto the summits of
Spanish hills and the young girls
teetering
in red lace gowns.

II. Sun drops have gathered
into a morphing of
hallowed radiance,
into the glitter
sprinkled
on the tabletop of the ocean,
and gently caresses
the face of the oak leaves
while asking if they will dance
just one more time.

III. The nightingales have gathered
around the bottom
of the brightest sycamore tree,
and here they whisper,
pleading
with the Earth
so that She may recede,
to present fresh soil
from which they came.

IV. The bricklayer has gathered
in front of the fireplace
as the shoes on his feet
pierce the carpet with crumbled dirt,
he is a man of very few words,
they say,
but as the firelight twitches
and scatters
within that artificial cave,
he has found the words
to ask himself:
how long will the fire burn?

i can still remember what your
distressed denim
jeans felt like
beneath my
beating pillow
fingers and how you swore
you saw the Moon
in my throat
you said you spoke to Him
when you kissed me deep
and He told you
that even a great white shark
has a great soft heart
and that even a lion
will bleed when it is met by
a twig
but not even the Moon will tell
you that when i felt your leg
and touched your mango
knee I fell in love with the
tree that beared your fruit
so sweet-nothing salamander
when i see your sweet-nothing
smile i will count sheep in your
teeth and pull the hairs
from your chinny-chin-chin
and i will huff and puff and
blow your ******* *******
house down
and i will plant a mango tree
in its place

And there were battles in our eyes
And they fell down our faces
Like little waterfalls
And by the time the battle had ended,
We were fast asleep
And dreaming of times we could not
Consciously remember
We dreamt of loud music
And blue eyes with black pupils
We dreamt of the sun;
High, hot, heavy, and mighty
Suspending in the sky
We dreamt of loose clothes
Falling off of our bony bodies
We dreamt of ecstasy –
In our spirits
And our mouths
And the way the bitter raindrops taste
When the little battles landed
On our tongues
We dreamt of shotguns and empty bottles
Cornhusk ropes and broken lighters
So when I wake up tomorrow
I will not think of you
Because a dream well-spent
Is a dream well-kept

I don’t want to feel like I can’t breathe anymore
I don’t want to feel like the wind feels
When it tries to pass over a vent in the sidewalk

I don’t want to smell like other people anymore
I don’t want to wake up with the scent
Of thirteen-dollar cologne and sweat
Sticking to my skin like starfish to the bottom of the sea

I don’t want to be reminded of my empirical downfall
When I haven’t any sleeves to cover myself
And I can look down and see the canal of flesh
That was left behind after trying to rot it away

I don’t want my mouth to taste like coffee,
Smoke, *****, and bad wishes anymore
My eyes are burning and my throat is sore
And now glass is bursting in the small of my back

I am living inside of an invisible box
And the walls are closing in quickly
And I’m starting to forget how to breathe again

I think the hardest thing
About being an artist
Is all about inspiration.

It doesn’t matter how determined
Or desperate
An artist is.

She sits and she tries to come up
With something worthwhile to say,
Or to draw or to paint.

But all she sees in her head
Is a ticking clock, ***** snow,
An oak tree, and a brick building.

One of the issues
Of the common artist
Is as follows:

Nothing she says or thinks is important,
Or valued,
Or necessary.

She knows this.
But yet something
Pulls her to the keyboard or to the easel.

She could apologize for pretending like
She knows what or why or how to
Say dreamboat words.

But for now she’s content with
Pretending like she knows
What she’s doing.

And right now everyone else
Is content
With playing along.

I can’t help but envy those
Whose first thought in the morning
Is a person or a place
Or a feeling or a face
Because all I have these days
Are a bottle and a pen
And a lighter and then
I think about how lonely the dark
Must feel to be
When it is only it and me
Because the dark is the only one who sees
What it is truly like to be me
It is the only one who knows
What happens once men walk out my door
When the insides of my thighs are sore
Because my insides tell me
I am nothing but a ***** *****
The dark must have been the one
To predict
That I am only destined
To get more and more sick
And my future is lipstick
And a hotel bar
Only because my present is a used rubber
And a tangerine scar
The dark knows how ****** up it is
To live inside of a head so twisted
The dark is tall and it’s black
And it stands on two feet
It watches me breathe
And it watches me sleep
It drinks all my tears
It knows all my fears and
(What’s worse?)
It is always near
It shouts "Long live the fear!”
Into my ear
And “Long live the boozing
And smoking for the rest of your years
On earth!”
I know it isn’t fair
And, surely, it isn’t right
But it isn’t worth it to try to put up a fight
To a void with no mass;
A storm that cannot be put into a class
The dark wants me beat, and I know it will
The dark wants to eat, and it has me to ****
The darkness is a monster
And the monster is rare
But when it is around
You can taste it in the air
You can hear its hum
And you can feel its glare
So what would you do
If you felt the darkness there?

That was the first time
that words weren't able to describe
the beauty
that was before me.

Words couldn't describe how I felt.

When I looked at him,
I forgot about everything.

The world melted around me
while I just lied next to him.

I forgot about everything.

I forgot about the things I love,
the things I hate.

I forgot about the world
outside of that room
and everyone in it.

I forgot to worry about
how I haven't called my father lately,
my ceaseless to-do lists in the desk drawer,
or the cherry blossoms in Virginia.

But I didn't care,
because I didn't know.

I had forgotten.

It's funny how all these lovely things
that you usually use
to block out the ugly thoughts
suddenly become meaningless
when you succumb to one single amazing thing.

When you hone in on that one amazing thing,
nothing else matters.

He made the sun look boring.

He made the universe seem worthless.

As I was lying next to him,
I had decided that,
if given the option,
I would rather stay in bed all night with him
to watch him wake up in the morning
than ever see a single cherry blossom in Virginia
ever again.

How wonderful it is to know someone twice
How beautiful it is to remember that twinkle in their eye
Or that song in their throat
And how lovely it is to have a second chance
And at the frame of the daylight,
How amazing it is to already know the mouth and the nose
Of someone so familiar
Because in a world so unfamiliar,
How wonderful it is to have company

call me when your flight lands in Munich
and we can discuss
how the cinder blocks
standing stationary in the walls
like cold queen's guards
meet so seamlessly
they touch so cleanly
never a crack, never a pore

call me when your flight lands in Tampa
and we can talk about
all of the clothes on the floor
folding and crinkling
discontinuing continuum
they haven't been touched since July
and when you call,
we can talk about how they
make my room smell like
gasoline

let me know when you land safely in Munich
and I'd be happy to go on
about the smell of the parking garage
equal parts old rain and new exhaust pipes
and the open air
underneath the moon; so close
that I will grab it out of
the closet sky
and give it to you instead of saying:
        I'm so ******* sorry

let me know when you land safely in Tampa
and we can assume the position
of conductors
of a grand orchestra
of lost crickets and cracking bones
of the dogs barking at
spilled black ink
and chasing the painted Sun
and maybe when the song is over,
we will clean up the mess
and be able to fall in love
with nothingness

there was a blanket made of rust
spread on the couch made of stone
that was when i had no flesh

back then i was made of glass
and my bones were made of blood
you can imagine how ridiculous i looked

but that's how things were
i watered the plants
he picked the weeds

that evening, i developed a callous
on the insides of my palms
the glass melted away

the blood hardened and i was born
the king gave me his crown
the water turned to vapor

there was an orange light on the wall
it reminded me of your *****
and the way she talked about Vermont

no, i have never been to Vermont
no, i have never seen you as an animal
no, i have never been alive before

you are softer than the sound of the shofar
when i woke up in the rain-stained parking lot
and saw your knees in a puddle

there was a blanket made of teeth
spread on the couch made of sand
how was your trip to Vermont?

Walked in the door on a humid night
Carnations singing and cardinals blooming
******* and reaping; it’s all the ******* same
They told me welcome home
I got a basket of small gifts
A whistle and a flower or two
I think there might have been a candle
It doesn’t matter
But no one looked me in the eye
They told me there was good news, though
Looked up to the valley in the ceiling
Where small drops of water poured out like a broken ******* dam
They said I was allowed to choose my own casket
This is window shopping
There is always a false premise
But wait, then I fell down two flights of stairs
But nobody asked if I was okay
“Does it hurt? Can you move it?”
None of that
It didn’t hurt and I could move it
But there’s that premise again
I fell asleep that night alone in the bed with nothing covering my body
Exposé
Extra, extra, read all about it: small girl in a suffocating world is she even ******* real
I had a dream of white women with blonde hair
And a bat hung upside down in a fireplace

I was born last night
And today the world looks so bright
Have you seen the sun?
Have you felt the rain?
Have you heard the blackbirds?
Building a nest on the windowpane
I was born last night
Everything is okay
Because today is the first real brand new day

I do drugs everyday
To keep the memory tied to the dock
With tangled ropes and threatening weather
"There's a storm rolling in."
But I would never find you
Unless I was sober
Because when I think about the way
Your tongue tasted with mine
I get high anyways
And how your flesh feels
When it combines with mine
My core becomes numb
And how your smile
Lit up my bedroom for the first time all year
I missed it later that night
When the light switch refused to work
You bring me something
That I've never seen before
You have the key to a door
That I've been trying to open all my life
And for the first time
I'm not scared to fall
I am only afraid
That I will not be caught

And I will sit on this bench,
With needles in my brain
Dancing like they are knitting a scarf in your favorite color,
I will sit in the same place
Where you used to have your midnight cigarette
Where I had joined you
And the harmonies of our voices colliding in external thought
Made Beethoven rise from the grave
And while I sit here
I will wait for you
So that I may fall in love with you for another twenty-four hours
And we may return to our midnight cigarettes on the bench

So I sit here and I
inhale minty smoke
into my lungs
and I play Southern Cross
on repeat in my brain
And for some reason
I can’t help but feel a little
Ashamed
of the soreness on my arms
And my ribs
And I can’t help but feel
A little ashamed
That no one can know
How bad it feels to raise my hand
or hug my best friend
Not only due to the soreness on
my arms and ribs
But also due to the soreness in
My heart
So I inhale one time
And exhale twice
And I dust warm ash off of my thigh
Now I sit in the stinging cold
And I can’t help but feel like
I wish the car would have flipped
And crushed all my internal
Organs
Everyone else would have
Lived
And forgotten
With maybe a scar or two
On their arms
Or on their ribs
Just like me
And that’s how I would
Be remembered
Through little cuts and scrapes
On arms
And ribs
And bruises
On necks
And faces

I'd like to break both of my elbows
So that I can point out to you
All of the places that I'd rather be
Than here

This tacky patterned wallpaper
Reminds me of the past and how
Even with repetition
There was always something new to see

But the other room is white
And it reminds me of now
Where there's nothing in sight
No matter how hard you look

I am growing tired
And I no longer desire to be "graced"
With the burden of oxygen
Breathing only makes me more tired

People with temporary troubles **** themselves
So what if I am permanently ****** up?
It feels a little bit warmer today
But the windchill is still -25 degrees
So I think I will stay inside

I am lying here in bed
trying to remember the softest parts of your neck
where I kissed you
and how your lips felt
pushed into mine

but the memory is fuzzy
and unclear.

I was drunk that night
and you were drunk that night.
You were drunk for the first time in your life
and to this day,
I feel as if I took advantage of you.
I feel like I stripped
some sort of innocence from you,
even though I know
that you were never innocent
to begin with.

I am starting to believe
that it shouldn't have even happened.
I am beginning to wonder
where we would be
if I had never exploited an imaginary innocence
that creeps beneath our clothes.

I am starting to believe
that that night was an accident.
But it is no accident
that when our bodies were pressed together,
our hearts beat in synch.
It is not an accident
that when I see you now,
my heart is suddenly filled with stones
and my airways are suddenly blocked.
They are blocked with that same innocence
I stole from you almost three months ago.

I guess you could say that this is only a crush.
But thank God it is,
because love ******* hurts
and how I know I would rather be crushed
than hurt you.

Drink caffeine-free tea
Take deep breaths
Know that you are beautiful
Know that you are important
Remind yourself that you have stardust braided into your flesh
And so does everyone you have ever touched
Speak this mantra to yourself:
I'm okay, I will be okay, it's okay, it will be okay
And never let anyone tell you who you are

Why do we say we love the sunlight
And the way it bursts through a window in the morning
But we choose to stay inside
And ignore it

Why do we say we love the rainfall
And the ripples it makes in small puddles in the driveway
But we spend all of our money on umbrellas
And raincoats

Why do we say we love the flowers
And the scent that drifts from them,
Using the wind to hitch a ride
But we step on them and rip them from the ground
Leaving them to die

Why do we say we love each other
And each other’s voices and mannerisms
But we leave each other and let strangers be strangers
We ****** and ****, count our fallen as forgotten
We put ourselves first
Why don’t we love

i always ask myself how i know it isn't over with you. i always wonder how i can tell that you'll be back soon enough. it wasn't until recently that i started to develop a sixth sense for you. i began to notice the sensation that comes over me when fate catapults your soul back into mine. i have created a list:

1) there is a taste in my mouth. it is dry and heaving and tastes like the devil would taste. it leaves something to be desired. i guess you could compare it to fine dry red wine. but suddenly my tongue is a desert and i can taste you in the back of my throat.

2) you no longer matter to me. you disappear like a phantom. once i find a way to hurdle over you, you trip me up again. this is without fail. you must be picking twigs.

3) i forget to dream of you. you no longer visit my daydreams and nighttime dreams. i don't see you in my sleep and wake up vomiting your hazelnut-hued eyes.

4) weeks go by so much faster when your name evaporates from my life like water on the summer sidewalk. your name reminds me of the springtime and of fresh fruit. i bathe in the sound of your name. it starts in the front of my lips and travels itself to the back of my throat so eloquently and smoothly it feels like the first sip. i forgot how to pronounce your name.

5) there is always something missing. there is a hole in my chest in the shape of your beating heart. i want to hold it in my hand and keep it warm but unfortunately you like being cold when you sleep so i guess i will leave you alone for now. but the hole is still here.

i'm tired of writing lists. let's just talk about how i love you like the sun loves the dusk and the moon the dawn. it feels like an anvil has been lifted from my chest when i say it, that i love you. i love the little freckles on your shoulders that remind me of the constellations that i can see in the sky back home in florida. you know, there's much less light pollution in florida than here and you can see every star in the ******* sky those nights. i used to love it, now i am in love with it.

i love the smile where your eyes squat and all of your teeth show. i love the little hairs on your sternum and the spearmint flavor on your tongue. i love when you touch my hair or my face or anywhere on my body because i know that it is your hand and not anybody else's. i like to say to myself that i am yours and you are mine in those moments between the hours of 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. you make me happy like a ******* child and you make me think about life in a way that seems so much brighter and more colorful than the way i do on my own.

i lie in bed thinking about you and your entirety and how blessed i am to know you. i think of how i will never be able to call you mine outside of those hours when i am allowed to feel you as if you were mine and it shatters my heart and fractures my soul. but i smile because i know you. i am happy that i will always know you. i will always be able to say that i have met you. i  have known you. i know the curves in your lips and the nuances in your voice and the fragility of your spirit. that is why i am happy.

i will always know you, even if you are not mine.