sometimes
i don’t want you to know me

i want to walk past you on the street
raise my eyebrow and look at you
while we pass under the streetlight
and swing my hips
so that you turn around
and turn back to your friends
to whisper about me

i want our shoulders to accidentally touch
and i want you to feel your skin tingle
beneath the shirt you wore
--the one that is tight on your muscles--
hoping you would see me

i want you to wait for me by door frames
to walk me to class
and live for the moments i giggle at you

i want you to find my fears
and ache to protect me from them

i want our lips to touch
and i want yours to part
and breathe in
because you couldn’t have imagined
a first kiss
like that

i want you to be unable to stop thinking about me
keep my name on your tongue all day
until you dial my number
and call to talk to me

i don’t want you to know me
because i want you to fall in love with me
all over again

there is a single scratch
on the waxy hardwood floor
from where she broke
one night in august.

a single, jagged line
where her feet tripped on the broken frames
that held fleeting moments
where her chin hit the ground
because her knees already had
where her hands couldn’t let go of her own lungs
to catch herself in time

its submerged now
in a puddle of crimson tears
and surrounded by
shreds of her white cotton sweater
with the ink stain on the cusp

you see
she was trying to fly
but her shoe laces had grown to vines
that crawled up the sides of houses
and into the drainpipes beneath the city

she wanted to dance on cloudy pillow tops
sing the lullabies her mother whispered into her dreams
pull sunbeams through her fingers and tie them into her braids

she hadn’t learned
skies rest on the ground
clouds need valleys to cry on
the earth must turn for the sun to rise
to fly you must have the floor to leave.

there is a reason
woman is shaped
with the curves of an hourglass

the shouldered top
in which rests the weight
of threadbare words
covered in the crimson paste on chapped lips

the ever-slimming waist
the hips that hold our hands
with fingers that slip between
our cracked ribs
and pull. tightly. inwards.
to make it harder for that ****** sand
to waterfall through

and the wide feet
with train-track paths behind them
that lead through middles of mountains
fly over valleys of sugarcane and wildflower
and beneath trenches woven deep in the ocean

there is a reason
woman is shaped
with the curves of an hourglass

that pale, fine time
that slips from
the tip of a rough tongue
and through gritted teeth
falls into the hollow bones
of the hips, legs and ankles

at the moment time leaves her
the sand is now full
of chipped mountain rock
sweetened with sugarcane
colored with specks of yellow wildflowers
and salted with kisses from the Atlantic.

for a moment consider
wiping away hardened edges
smearing the razor blade lines
of your rusted smile
of your painted rib cage

imagine the terror
no—the horrific beauty
of a new self.

who would be your ruler
to measure your growth;
or would you grow at all?
would you fall into the same
ash-colored patterns your mother sewed into your dresses
and polished into your patent leather shoes
only acceptable on Sunday mornings?

how would you redefine your name
that has grown to fill the teeth inside your mouth
and weigh down your jaw bone
with jagged cement?

and honey
even if you could do all of those things
where would you go?
who wants to know the carcass you washed clean,
void of those scars behind your left knee cap
and that freckle on your temple?

what of those sunshine laughs
that colored your bedroom walls
and crocodile tears
that littered the linoleum bathroom floor?

new beginnings are frivolous
because
with the same canvas
the same acrylic paints
the same brush strokes

you’re left with an original copy.

i went to your grave today
and my ankles touched the grass
6 feet above you
i placed my palms on brown stems
crackling beneath the weight of my painted smile.
the wind kicks up my hair
like your coattail
hitting the back of a leather seat
facing ivory notes
that mimic the lullaby i sing to you now.
the white flowers stem from
my fingernails after all this time
they are beautiful weeds
that i pluck and loop around each other
placing this crown on my head
that is anything but regal.
the buds are the last snow
and their misty color matches that
of the clouds escaping my chapped lips.

i wonder
when was the last time your cheeks relaxed
and the plastered grin crumpled into your parted lips
expelling the hot breath fastened inside swelling lungs
with a safety pin

or your shoulders
slumped with the gravity of a million worlds
(including mine)
that orbit your clenched fists like the sun

and as much as i would like to i cannot
pry your fingers open
or chip away at your stucco smile
or will you to inhale and exhale my love

Dancing with the keys of a Steinway
On the wings of the strings
My biggest regret in all of my life
Is that I didn’t try enough things

I never wept at the sight of the moon
And never sat under the stars
I never traveled far enough
And never earned any scars

The keys play soporific songs
And the memories fade away
My dreams are too big to keep
In the keys of a grand Steinway

His hollow eyes were enough to see
As he walked right in front of me
In hurried traffic he traipsed with ease
His tattered coat fluttered with the warm breeze

But his eyes kept a solemn gaze
He walked across this violent maze
Cars screamed discontent with impatient rage
And his countenance was never phased

And cars provided the perfect disguise
To announce their unrest and silently chastise
This man whose jacket was wholly and worn
Bore the weight of fastidious scorn.

It started in a hurry
In sounds like the sizzle of summer air
Between two chipped teeth
Two chapped lips.

There was never to be enough room
For the all encompassing mouth of heat
Colored like the sticky surface of a blow-pop
Orange until you lick down to the icy blue center.

Only then do you notice the icy blue center
Has left the felt tip a speckled white
Like looking at winter treetops on the horizon
Littered with broken branches
Weighed down by Christmas carols

And slowly the head tilts to the left
Like a child whose favorite question is “why?”
And whose waxy fingers are now covered
In the sweet slime of a blow-pop

close the gaps between
the white pads of my extended
fingertips
and your bitten nails
put just enough weight
to feel the heaviness of the first
arpeggio

follow the tune
with your eyes closed
forearms laid on one another
like the bricks of a hollow building
waiting to be filled with our
melody

curl your wrists so they latch
over mine
and press your cheek against my own
and steady the 9/8 time with
our synchronized breath


relax with poise as your hands
may finally rest
follow each ivory memory as it leaves
me and runs into you
flooding your minds eye with nothing
but me

stay until you are done
wait until you no longer mimic my measures
give until your soul is weightless

and i'll lay my hands over yours

hairline fractures
sketched on arms
with microscopic graphite pencils
the kind artists use to draw
the wide eyes of a 2-dimensional fear

engrained constellations
containing those hidden greek myths
of the triumphs and tragedies
of those ancient heroes we get tattooed on the soles of our feet

wire-brush scratches
that create the canals
my icy hot blood runs through
the pathways that swell when you breathe on my neck

if you laid each person
under the scrutiny of a microscope
you would see their cracks
their beautiful impurities where
sadness seeps slowly in
where wordless emotions ooze
and where little sunbeams
reach their spindly fingers towards the freedom of a new day.

Tiptoed steps make the loudest noise
When the whole house is sleeping
And fingertips are the pots and pans
That were my cymbals and my kick drums
Breath is gusts on the shutters
And notes between the metal of wind chimes
Even my slender arms are weighted
Everything that was once private silence
Is now colored with the sloppy strokes
Of a child’s hand
Everything is boisterous
And yet somehow when my nose
Brushes your ear
It sounds like the beat of a butterfly’s wings
Twisting through the rafters
Of your solemn mind

I will never leave.

Your words, they spin, like a carousel
Until I’m stumbling in love
Your stories are gone to memory now
And fly on the wings of a dove.

The atomized remains of your touch are here
To be swept up with the last of your scent
It’s a listless job and cobwebs will form
As I wonder where all of you went

The folds on my pillow spell out your name
Gone with the last wind of your breath
I can’t lie down without your words
Tumbling down the back of my neck.

So if you must, tread light and with great care
For we have many memories to keep
That dove must fly and be strong tonight
And we have miles to go before we sleep.

she could be anyone
a neutron star--
a product of something as magnificent as
a supernova explosion

a diamond in the ruff--
polished clean with pearls for a smile

an angel in the flesh--
that fell gracefully into your lap
and washed your sins white

but as long as she
giggles at your mediocre jokes
(the ones only i used to understand)
tangles her legs with yours
(you always craved more of my skin)
and leaves bite marks on your neck
(do you remember that shade of purple?)

she will forever be my satan
the devil
who ripped down my blue sky
and painted
it
red.

leave me on the roadside
to walk on tumbleweeds
and sleep on dustclouds

away from the fingers that
pull open my jaw
to see what sin
last rolled off my dry tongue

away from lights
held against my skin to
confirm that my blood runs
red blue
like theirs

away from park benches
with my name
scratched in their wood
and my blood smeared
on the concrete sidewalk
leading to them

away from megaphone voices
that
even when your head is between
your sweaty palms
and bent knees
still find a way to scream their
discontent at the way
you buttered your toast that morning

leave me on the roadside
i will be lost and alone
but i will have only
my scars
my skin
and eyes following that ****** yellow line.

place your hands on either side of my ribs
and feel my
pinky-stretched muscles
twist and grind with the earth’s orbits

tap your finger on my temple
and listen to the
bones hollowed-out
by termites that run on memories

hold my wrists above my head
and look at
the stretched skin of my stomach
so translucent
you can see the treasure map I etched all over me

these bodies are sponges
absorbing the wind
into our hips
and sprawling our fingers to try and
catch the air and stick it back into our lungs
muscling through the salty waves
that stain our cheeks a raw pink
and erode our invincible confidence
and chip our pearly smile

we grab for our surroundings
with a dying necessity
and sew them into ourselves
so that we are patched into an identity

so when we are tired of being ragdolls
pieced together by our triumphs and failures
we begin to choose any fabric
regardless of the color, shape, or size
just to cover the holes we have created

then we face the mirror to see our what is left

we are disappointed not by our own mouths
but the ones on the faces behind us
looking past their own holes and into our own

where you can see
the taught fibers of stretched muscles
the tunnels termites have created in ivory bones
and pale skin pulled tight around panting lungs.

my cheeks are pink
raw from
where i bit them
to hold the fire in my mouth
when you thought your feet stood on my chest

my lips are red
because i painted them that way
a mask
because i thought the natural ****
was too plain for you

my fingertips are purple
from pulling at your arms
willing you to turn around and finally face me.
to look at what you left behind.
to meet my gaze

then you’ll see my eyes
they are grey now
the golden green flecks that used to
catch the sunbeams
and the emerald that reflected
off the trees
has been diluted by
the storm that hit
with the same force you did

i used to be beautiful
filled with my own spectrum of vibrancy and life

now,
my colors are less significant
because of the shapes you left me.

the round bullseye curving
against the line of my jaw

the five-lined print of your grip
on my bicep

the oblong story
on the small of my back
from one bottle that you forgot you had in your hand.