I know that I will never marry Jimmy Fallon or Donald Glover or Joseph Gordon-Levitt.
I know that despite the myths, Brussels sprouts taste awesome.
I know that one too many tequila shots will automatically turn you into a philosopher.
I know that the sun sets in the East and rises in the West (or is it the other way around?)
I know that I am most happiest when I'm surrounded by amazing friends in the unseasonably warm March sun and a banjo is playing.
I know that a smile straightens everything out.
I know that although you can't forget the past, you can't let it dictate your future.
I know that having *** for the first time is weird, and so is ****.
I know that my hair is golden, my eyes are blue and I will never be stick-thin as hard as I try.
I know that there are 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week and 12 months in a year. But it never seems to be enough time to figure out who you are.
I know that people come and go but those that love and care for you will stay glued next to you no matter what.
I know that as much as it hurts, you will get over love.
I know that I will never have the courage to rap publicly.
I know that Kim Kardashian's *** is most likely not real.
I know that travel truly broadens the mind.
I know that I'm insecure and over analytical and anxious and easily frustrated.
But I know that I'm also passionate and determined and a hopeless romantic and a picky eater and a restless sleeper.
And above all:
I know that when I look at you I see past your eyes.
I know that when you're around I smile wider and laugh louder and flip my hair more often.
I know I dress nicer to remind you how beautiful you think I am.
I know that I forget to inhale and that the butterfly on my shoulder has to fly up to my ear and remind me to breathe.
I know that I care about you more than anyone.
I know that I let you into every pore of my body, every opening: my heart, my head, my...
I know that I am willing to jump in with my whole body and risk being drenched in water for you.
I know that I can make you as happy as you make me
But I know that you're scared and vulnerable and hurt
But if I'm sure of anything (and mind you, I'm not sure of much)
I know that I will hurt and be afraid and breathe with you to make you love me.

a letter to myself:
(a reminder, rather),
I know it feels as though you are now in the trenches
the mud clinging between your toes,
the walls too inevitably high to scale,
the rain beating and pouring down on your body,
and you see everyone above the surface hovering,
watching you as you try and clasp the sides of this hollow grave, frantically trying to escape
and you want to just lie in the mud and have the rain drown you until you are nothing
but you must remember this:
you will be fine.
And I know it feels as though you have been butchered, gutted and cleaned
ready to be thrown on the grill by he who so carefully flayed you open over time and space
only to have all your guts and bones trailing behind you, and thrown into a stock *** to boil away
and I know you miss his furrowed brow
and his incessant organization
and his frigid room
and you want him to call and say
"go to where we met and I will hold you and not say anything more than I'm sorry and I want you and you're all I see"
but remember this:
you will be fine.
And right now, I know you want to cover yourself in paint
all colours, but especially red; Tabasco to be certain
and slather it on until all the marks and scuffs disappear
until you disappear
and you want to refuse to let it dry; apply layer upon layer of every shade of blue from sky to navy;
from lime to forest green,
from sunshine to mustard yellow
and all variations of pink,
and your brush becomes heavy because this paint is caking your skin,
a cast of plaster holding your true self in
until you are as frigid as a statue; you are clad in stone
immovable and impenetrable;
your shield
but please remember this:
you will be fine.
One day someone will see your statue in a square or a park,
the sunlight beaming off your sheen,
and will see past that paint:
the layers of Tabasco
and emerald
and ocean
and canary
and pink
and see you
because you are a light
you are the last piece of pie that you know you shouldn't have, but take anyway
you are a phosphene that never disappears, even when their eyes are open
and he or she will approach your statue,
in a stance of utter uncertainty and self-doubt
shoulders hunched, spine pulled in and face blank and wanting
and will see you
and will take a chisel to your stone
and break off the layers
reduce them to dust, surrounding your pedestal
brush, blow and wipe it clean
and they will suffer from the heat and labour
but they will see you
and they will chip until finally you emerge
that light
and all will be gathered in that square or park
and as you look around you realize that they are the people you love the most
and the person who has broken your mould, your shell
is the one you love most of all: you.
Because you look in the mirror and you love you
you want you
you need you
and I know it's dark
and I know there are drills and hammers and saws
and I know when you sleep you are erased
but remember this:
you will be fine.
you are alive.
you are here.
you are better.
you will rise.

sweater
sweet
"you taste it"
sweet
I feel it with you
as I am enveloped in this sweater that
smells
feels
tastes
breathes
like you
comforting and warm, like you
woven and fragile, like you
itchy and scratchy, like you
like
you
if I could wear this sweater forever I would
to be held by the very fabric that has hugged your person that has hugged me
that I long for
that I think of as I remember that this is the first thing I put on after you felt me
all of me, with you
that this was the first thing you let me have, and take
that this was what you trusted me with
your Christmas sweater
what I put on for reassurance
that you want me and need me
what I put on for safety
when I feel like I'm losing it
I'm falling now though
in this sweater
backwards into that ocean
and I'm scared, sweater
that as days pass he loses me
that his image of me fades and drifts away
that he forgets the sound of my voice
that my touch on his body has evaporated
sweater, I want to hold him as he does me
this image in my mind of his smirk
his lanky but grand stature
his sturdy hands and brittle nails
his smell of Old Spice
his blonde bed head
I want to hold it all
and I want to hear it all, sweater
how he used to light everything in his path on fire as a child
how he owns a mug with his face on it as a little boy
how he lost it all to one person, like me
sweater I can feel myself falling
I'm losing my balance
I can't stand
I'm trying to protect my heart because I'm afraid to let it go
but a part of me fears I already have
and it's lost
in his arms
bare and bleeding
and yet here I am
wearing his sweater
alone and yearning.

if I could be any one of your body parts I’d

be your fingertips.
when you break my gaze on screen, I yearn for it like

a lost child.
keep pushing others out of the way at aquariums so I can
touch the stingrays

and nudge my calves with your nose when you
want to be brushed

I promise to always remember where your car is parked,

if you let me keep that photo of you as a young pilot
in my pocket

in public spaces, we fill the

air between us with supernovas.
you are Sirius
you are the lobster
you are the look across the room at a party;

feel my phantom hands on your shoulders
I’ll crawl into the nape of your neck and make a home

plaster myself across your skin so you can find me

in the grooves of your hands
I’ll sew my words into your sheets so you will never be without them

promise me you’ll comb out your tangled hair if it gets too much

and wait for me by the Whitney
as I walk 341 miles for you.

king of the sea,
with a rigorous exoskeleton peeling away
moulting causes such distress,
exposed to the thrashing undertow of the sea
and enemies

who protects you?
a callow arthropod poised on fractured shells

it isn’t your father,
balancing a bottle of brandy between his lips
or your confidant,
skidding his tires across your mind

a starfish tried,
she threw her arms round your shell
as you added new muscles underneath
she stuck her tube feet in her claws
as you brittled her skin
she said I love you
and you retreated

when you are 70
and clamouring the floor
put your arms behind your back to beckon her to you
try –
she is the sea and no one owns her.

coffee tastes better in Spain

a simple hello is groundbreaking

comfort can be a warm bed or a “like” of a picture

the cold is different in the UK (you can feel it in your bones)

they will always give you a knife and fork to eat a hamburger

sometimes you need to eat at a Hard Rock in Lisbon to be reminded of home

if you eat the bread, they will charge you 1€

crying alone in a hotel room or at a Chinese restaurant in Italy is perfectly normal

never doubt the power of distance

now you can never say you didn’t try

just because you don’t speak the same language, doesn’t mean “*******” isn’t universal

sometimes sleeping next to someone who peeled your outermost layer off is the most intimate you need to be

“I’ll never see these people ever again”

have pride

ask me now what it is that I want

I have come to loathe all brown bags and black suitcases

vulnerability does not necessarily equal intimacy

remember that you pulled yourself out of the sea

your feet tread castles and cathedrals where thousands walked

art galleries are best enjoyed alone

now you understand when mom and dad don’t answer how agonizing it is

write it down if you want to forget it

acknowledge buried truths

eat paella and shnitzel and pizza and fish and chips and don’t think

go to movies at the tallest cinema

slip a little on the cobblestones

lay for hours on the beach

then

go home
be humble
remember
reminisce
teach
embrace

Glasgow – 1/8/15

I.
you never saw me in winter:
shearling fur and kettlebell boots
my outer crust cracking from one step outdoors.

I wear socks to bed
and smoke Belmonts to cover
my breath with toxins
instead of you.

II.
I never wear pants when I’m with you
mostly because I’m hoping to re-enact me walking
over the Millennium Bridge
in May.

if the wind pushed any further
up my skirts, it would force my lungs right out my throat.

my hotel room called for us
but you were on a plane to Norway
and I was in my head.

III.
the last time we had ***
you told me you’d finish me off first next time
but I’m always like your backup song for karaoke,
in case someone takes your first choice.

you never:

acknowledged that my rice was shaped like a heart
and yours like a star at dinner,

ask me what my tattoos mean,

but always ask me if I’m pregnant.

you’re a roll of film that needs be developed but
I keep smearing the edges with my fingers
and scanning the red light over myself.

bare chested and open to the sky, I wish I knew what

it felt like to see the future. At this moment, all I know

is that the rocks are making grooves in my shoulder blades
and my ******* may very well be burning. It’s time to turn

over; try facing the earth and be captivated by ants
traipsing across the rock.
Minutae.
Mundane.
The tide may swell over and engulf me, fresh, to rock me gently

maybe underwater I’ll catch a glimpse of strong words
or the place where I die.
I’ll see my lover amongst the seaweed
and our children laying in shells.
But on my back, by this

sea, I hear friends praising each other in French
and see the sun’s outline when I close my eyes.
I am still 23 with purple fingernails and shaved legs.
I am no closer to the water.

based on the painting “Loving Bewick” by Paula Rego

He would feed me sardines perched above me
every night before we ****** in the big white lighthouse

I never bled more than I did that summer;
his beak digging into my back as I pulled handfuls

of feathers – but I loved the thrashing of his wings
and the uneven wood beneath my arched back.
He covered me when

we finished and I could smell the oceans he had swam
over on his neck. In the morning, he would open his gull and I

climbed inside as he flew me back to the city.
He would never let me sit atop his back to see
the flush of green or the meeting of mountains. Only inside

his mouth did I belong. I wished more than anything to be
a sardine – to be dangled above others, to have their adoration
proved to me before I slid between their teeth forever.

hands
clasp
grasp
yours, mine or a stranger's
line of life, line of head, line of heart
it is said that the hand is the map, and the heart is the guide
but how come whenever it is that you hold my hand you also hold my heart?
(in your hands)
feeling the strength of your hold
on my heart
and my hands
letting go
of my heart
but please,
not my hands
I need to keep that clasp
and grasp
and hold I have on you
I need to feel your roughness
and clamminess
and softness
between my fingers
yours fit so perfectly
what if I never find another fit?
what if the next fingers are too short, too long, too bristly, too smooth?
I only remember yours
and what if their lines tell too different a story?
what if they crossed an ocean to find me,
or have never picked up a knife,
or have never lost themselves in another?
and I am left holding my own hands
too familiar
when all I yearn for are yours
I should have never let go of yours
even that one morning when you said it was too cold to hold mine
I should have locked yours between mine and assured you that I would make you warm
now I am grabbing for something in the dark,
a phantom limb; your hands
I wish I had clawed up your wrist to your elbow to your shoulder to your neck
and held on
because my hands are empty
nothing I hold bears weight
nothing I touch, feels
nothing I stroke shudders
nothing I scrape bleeds
my hands hold nothing
my lines of mind, head and heart have blurred
I can feel the reverb of my heart's beat as it left my hands and fell into yours
they are bony and frail and stained and drained of colour
what do I do with my hands?

you

tried on my suit that night to
“see

how much space you took up” in it
your yellow dress looked like a hazard in the

moonlight.
turn head once, twice
your slight hands, like china,
foreign now.
In January, you tasted like cinnamon.
Now, in

August you taste like wheat.

You fold my sweaters like packages
and always offer to peel my oranges.

To you, attacks and bombs have rendered me incapable.

My mind is your Brillo pad,
and like my suit -
overwhelmed and ill-fitting -
I don’t see you in it.

two MTA

workers play invisible baseball across platforms at Union Square

the runs in my tights mimic the skyscrapers
whose marks I see across the black sky from the rear

window while he ***** me in the backseat of his Audi

an alley in Brooklyn,
the threat of a subway slasher,
the likelihood of getting lost,

but the questioning by tourists for direction

if I say “I am one of you”, it

discredits my memories here:

[pumpkins on 34th in July
kisses in bathtubs in Meatpacking
top of the Whitney]

but I am not (yet) one of you:

impatient drivers,
L train riders,
rainbow bagel obsessers

I still feel a hand grip my throat when walking down 5th
and throw my bones off the Chelsea Pier
before I spend 11 hours wondering why I haven’t yet committed myself to you.

5 8 15 20 24 29
SoHo seems nice this time
of year; although I am terrified of going
anywhere near a city that holds you in its hands and above me, too high
to me, you are New York. but when I walk down Central Park West my shadow clings to my shins
you scrape my skin with your breath and I feel hot July air that is trapped between your buildings – these subways are too stifling
I will let you lift up my skirt like he did, but only because I know that it’ll rain heavily the Chelsea Pier after.

1 17 23 25 41 47
Churchill
I think my eyes are permanently squinted; agonizing over the shape of your eyes and how they
relate to mine – even in the light you’re missing pieces, your rocks are crumbling away, you are sand – your grains hold words –
unmentionable, special, temptress, miss, you, nothing, work, in my dreams, diffuse, instantly, affection, with, you, stuck, darling, attention, far, vivid, feather, waking, wasted, sweet dreams, worth, wish, awake
I always feel my conscious wrap her delicate hands firmly around my throat and pour salt water into my eyes when you are in front of a screen, in front of me – I think maybe I should cut pieces of me
could I mail them to New York? to SoHo? you can curl up with them in bed and try to find the grooves where you fit in, or just fry me on the grill. Ideally, you should consume me so that I may never leave. only if –

15 18 30 32 40 42
I’ve been pinching and piercing my skin to prevent me from crying more often than
I sleep. I know it’s morbid and dramatic but being slaughtered by tears is not how I want
to spend my Saturday night. I’d rather see Basquiat on a wall or short films screened while I watch you instead. I would walk until my legs gave out and
trace one single finger along your spine. And here I am, grasping my skin between my fingers and pinching, squeezing you out – I can just scrape the excess off after you’re gone
tomorrow I plan on eating as many seeds as I can to grow flowers in my throat and have them sprout past my eyes so all I see are petals. They’ve been missing for a while. The weeds still cover
my stomach. If only when I thought of you I thought of flowers. Most of the time I see a hand reaching through the thickest fog. As I reach for you, all I hear are 35 words that cover me.

Ribs close
breathe
heave
and between the spaces lie pieces of others,
memories you cling on to and never wish to let float away for fear that you will never find them with another
that these memories will be the last you have of this nature with this person who knows your ribs,
can feel their fragility and light weight,
who sees the cracks that others have caused and wants nothing more than to crawl in between your heart and make a home, safe, where you know you can always go
but over time they become restless and struggle to break out of the cage,
they have willingly pushed themselves in the cage but now,
oh now, suddenly,
they want out
and they push past your lungs and puncture them
and bruise your heart on the way out until they
lift out of you, squeeze out, breathe someone else’s air
and for a long time you are crumpled on the floor,
a mass of bones and muscle that don’t connect,
that are no longer one but are just a heap of sadness and guilt and pity
and people walk by your bones and kick them and trample them and get dirt on your muscles and spit on your organs and laugh at your disconnected, dismembered body because
they have picked up their bones and muscle or maybe,
if they were really lucky,
they never had to
they could stay together and breathe in each other’s air and have another person live beneath their skin and inhabit their thoughts and be the main feature of their dreams and the hero of their nightmares
but you are not them
you are
bones and muscle and ***** and
discarded, scattered thoughts on the floor who gasps for air and begs for structure and yearns for fusion of her being together,
wants nothing more than to return to being one, to become a solid again
because why should one person push their way out
and walk on two feet
and kiss girls
and wear banana hammocks
and dye their hair red and blonde and brown
and then somehow, so slowly and so unexpectedly and so amicably and so generously
slice back into your skin until it almost smells like him again
until it oozes with his promises
and his words
and his laughter
and his voice
and its almost as if even when apart,
in separate beds, on different sheets,
you are together
and you feel his skin on yours and you can feel yourself
slowly
but then all at once
melting into him
fading back into his breath
fading into his hands
you place every word into his palms with the promise to hold them like eggshells,
“don’t break them”
and he sets his thoughts into your scrambled mind,
words he’d never utter out loud any other time except now, with you
and
does he miss you like you’ve missed him?
he says he’s lonely but he doesn’t realize you’ve never had anyone between your sheets
or
in your bathroom
or
in your kitchen
but you have inhabited those spaces in his
it might be a different place now,
a new air and smell
but he has probably had her there,
not you,
her,
and you think all of the time of what it is –
full of garbage and clothes and his guitar and exactly $100 worth of groceries
and you want to inhabit that space so badly it consumes you
you want to rub your smell all over so no matter where he is, he will think of you
and you want to lie in his bed with no clothes on and just make him stare at you,
watch you
and you want to write notes and place them in unexpected places
like in his couch
and
underneath his sink
or in his leather jacket
notes that say:
“you inhabit me”
and
“I dreamt of you last night”
and
“I love you my first love I love you I love you I love you”
repeated
and he will find them when you are not there,
maybe not in the near future,
maybe months from now he will see the repetition
and it will rattle his brain
and he will wonder why he ever pushed,
prodded,
and pulled his way out of you
and into the arms of another

my atoms

have always loved your atoms.

you caught me off guard
like a subway pulling too
quickly

out of Ossington Station

(I couldn’t ground myself)

you remind me of my last breath:
taut, slight but necessary

stay

with me

I still feel your words
growing up my spine
there are dead roses
covering my sheets from you

and although he picked them up
and wrapped new vines
around my front door
and gifted me jars filled with conversation

the tattooed pilot wings on his chest
are reminiscent of yours flying above me

I want you to consume me as I do you
put me in your mouth
chew me up
swallow me to be absorbed in your system
because you have been drained of me

the smell of cooked meat is
too strong in my nostrils to ignore
the sizzle of oil in the pan is
your fingers running across my stomach
the steam from that *** is
the way my heart flurries when you look at me
I can’t consume anything
because I want to consume you

and you can control the temperature of the pan
and you can check the doneness of the meat
and you can whisk the homemade gravy until it thickens
but can you find me hidden in your meal?

we marry together
like pork and apples
like steak and potatoes
like crepes and dulce de leche
but my shell is cracking
and my form is melting
and my alcohol is evaporating
I am being sautéed, julienned and sous-vided by you
I am losing my flavour

do you promise your pigs you won’t hurt them
before you carve the meat off their bones?
I don’t wish to be hung in a cellar with all the other carcasses you’ve left
hanging by a hook and swinging,
the blood draining from their bodies

I can’t cook
but I would cook you:
reheat your stock,
and rehydrate your fruit,
and flash fry your heart
so your colour returned
and you were mine,
on my plate,
at my table,
holding my hand,
and I could consume the only thing I want:
you
yes, chef
you.

this room
a room with a view
towering coasters littered with fireworks
a suburban landscape that grew
eighteen years
for a while I thought there was no view beyond these walls
these four barriers that hold
all of me
where I g r e w
eighteen years
from a stumbling child
with pink bows and sturdy white iron
so small in a space so large
I couldn’t fill it
I couldn’t find myself within it yet
this sea of pink frills
but
I curled up with a book every night from what I remember
and I wrote in my first every diary on this bed
and I listened to that prized stereo over and over and over
and as I blossomed this pink palace faded
change
i
changed
so that pink was torn down
and replaced with blue
and green
and purple
and for a while it remained bare
I remained bare
but as I g r e w I was marked
graffiitied
plastered
a rejection here
a death there
I was no longer solid; plain
like these walls, images appeared stuck
who I should be
where I should go
what I should wear
and soon all I saw were these walls
and myself within them
they spoke to me
sometimes in pain
other times in anger; frustration
this cave and sanctuary was my only retreat
writing on the same desk from my childhood about love lost and dreams unfulfilled
I sat in a closet covered in fabric and lost myself in stories
I dance alone facing a mirror, scrutinizing every angle

who was I?

within these walls I found a path
an acceptance
a moment well received and earned
I finally cried tears of joy
new steps, new space
new paint, remove old
images stripped away
from these barriers
red, white, brown
calm
these “barriers” slowly became
arms
they held me
during times of struggle and self-doubt and stress and fear
and I still looked in that mirror and scrutinized
and I still yearned for more of a view
and I still lay broken and heaving in this bed
but I also
g r e w
I left and came back changed one irreplaceable July summer
and
I spoke freely and bravely through the mouth of my pen
and I
smiled brightly at his face on that screen
I g r e w
eighteen years
these arms, once barriers, once only walls
hold everything
all of me
and to leave is bittersweet
for I want to stay
and curl up in this bed
and see my past selves
sitting there with me
to remind me of where I’ve come
I want to sit at that desk and hear
the incessant drumming underneath my floors
I want to hear my mother call me down for dinner
and my father’s hearty laugh
but although these arms hold me
I know they are letting me go
eighteen years
letting me go
to keep on
g r o w i n g
to return changed
but to still see
myself.

you are post-apocalyptic
cluttered with debris
ruins
under siege,
destructive.

you are filled with nothing but smoke,
I fight for you,
search for one flash of light,
for one hidden memory of brightness within you:
the lights are gone at Yonge & Bloor
the 501 to Roncesvalles has disappeared
the condo showroom at King and Blue Jays Way
is no longer filled with your hands on my hips.

you are empty,
vacant,
save for the souls of those who choose to remind me
of days long forgotten:
a hand grasped at Harbourfront,
tears littering the patchy expanse of Bellwoods,
your laugh at Queen and Dufferin.

you are a nightmare;
a poltergeist,
you are breathless
and soulless
and hopeless:
nothing

you are cavernous
Toronto –
so encompassing,
you will cut me in half
before I heal
and gain
the desire
to fight
to stay.

we ran out of gas as we pulled
into the marina
and I thought
“how lucky it was
we weren’t stuck at sea”
it mimicked the moment
you called and said
“I didn’t feel how
I was supposed to.”

the dog was stepping on my toes
on board
and
the bare-chested captain
bounced me out of my seat
going parallel along the waves
the salt air kept catching
in my throat
it felt like your hand
was still clasped around it

I am at ease knowing
that sardines don’t swim
in these waters
I wonder if your fish pillow
swims sentinel –
no school surrounding –
watches you scroll past
pictures of my naked figure
with newly acquired tan lines

I am shallow water:
feel comforted knowing
you can wade in up to your knees
and not get in
too deep.

like the

Rialto, the Grand Canal flows underneath me.
Even as I hold my back

in my hands, I can no longer support my discretions.
Sixteen.
Twenty-one.
Thirty-three.
How

did I have the space?
You would think it would be engraved across my pelvis:
“wrap it up”
before you
hold me down

I ran with lit matches as a girl,
waiting until the flame kissed my thumb and forefingers
puckered pink under the surface.
I enjoy the boils left

behind by my recklessness:
every bruise from a fence **** and
every pebble-sized bump from my head
hitting the roof of a Camaro
sat underneath my skin,
just like Lil’ A
       B
       C
and I can lie flat
as the canal rushes over.

there you are:
brown mop of hair,
glasses you refuse to keep on,
teal green eyes,
broad smirk,
thin body stretched over 206 bones
a man
not my little brother –
no,
when you were little
you sat in that carriage and I read to you:
hours upon hours of stories you probably don’t remember,
but that I cherish
and when you were little
I would ask if you were a boy or a girl
and because I wanted a sister you would always say the opposite of what you are
and most of all when you were little, I shielded you
I carried you
I picked you up
but now you are a man
trapped inside his head
I see this shell of you, my brother,
but sometimes I can’t find you
sometimes all I see are your teal eyes
and not behind them
and there are moments where I wish I could peel back your skin
layer by layer
and go into your mind and see the chaos
like a busy city,
your mind,
cars honking
smog emanating from the tallest buildings
people milling and shouting and cursing
there is no pause
there is only go
one man in your brain carries in a black briefcase your fears
those worries that stop me from seeing you behind your eyes
and this man with a grey cloud overhead,
cloaked in a hood,
wanders your mind
and passes this fear from one person to the next
until slowly,
and gradually,
your whole brain is filled with grey clouds
and cloaked figures
and black briefcases
and shouting and whispering and laughing
and you disappear
from right here
back into your mind
“come closer”, they say,
“why live in this world when you can live in ours?”
and I hate these men; these people
distributing your fears
when it started, it was simply a fear of food,
but then it was
a fear of the world,
a fear of an illness,
a fear of yourself,
my little brother,
who smiled so brightly and vividly it was distractingly beautiful,
who draws so intensely and maturely and incredibly,
paints pictures of wisdom at sixteen,
who has rules and standards to the depths and validity of music
my little brother is trapped
and my stomach sinks when I ask:
“are you okay?”
and he only replies
“…yeah…”
and I feel so helpless when he looks so tired with his sunken eyes
because those men control him
they take all of him away and leave only a shell of my little brother
my bravest brother
my inspiring brother
my strong brother
whom I wish I could wipe clean of all the briefcases
and cloaked figures
and men
and fill his mind with a string of white lights,
Christmas lights,
and layer it with the smell of brownies baking in the oven,
and screens on which are projected his favourite shows and movies and videos of him,
my little brother,
who fights these men every day
and he deserves a medal of honour
because there is a war in his mind
and he battles incessantly
and I know, very soon,
even if only for a little while,
he’ll get a break from this city of his mind
and he’ll win.

I. Café
the waiter has the kindest eyes
when he goes home after his shift he probably finds coffee beans tucked into his pockets
the whirring of the machine doesn't faze him as it did when he first started
he has become accustomed to the grooves of wood and the abstract art above the bar
he glances at the clock every hour on the hour, counting down the minutes until he is released
catching a glimpse of his face in the mirror is a reminder he exists
every time I see myself in it, my eyes disappear from reflection
I wish I spoke Portuguese – these tourists behind me make me embarrassed to be English:
man, loudly: She wants ORANGE JUICE!
waiter nods – such patience
for a moment I think of what it would be like to go downstairs to the restaurant
past the mahogany wood and chessboard floor
and **** on one of the tables
the next patrons would have no idea they were eating off of passion and stunted breath
“Enjoy: homesickness tossed with overwhelming contentment and a dressing of lust.”
I could drink every bottle of Campari, Bacardi and Jameson lining the wall and I still wouldn't have the courage to tell him how kind I think his eyes are
I really want him to drape me over the golden chandelier so I can be reminded of what it feels like to have an all-seeing eye
he has such routine with the way he places sugar packets on plates and lays them down for sleep-deprived and cranky patrons
maybe I should've ordered something
we should have an object at each corner of the octagon table – a spell, a hex
I need to be fed pastries to continue breathing
I would like for him to walk me home
it's just around the corner and I know its name and number are marked on the street but I have a terrible sense of direction
one false turn and I may end up in the water
and I won't ever see the waiter’s kind eyes again.

II. Ruins
if you held me the way you held that camera I'd melt into an exalted sigh
you told me you only take pictures of things you love but you never took any of me
I mean, I know the height and decomposition of this building is breathtaking but I could give you some air if you kissed me by the rusted trellis
your orange sunglasses look ridiculous
I would rather drape you in a cloak, like the Statue of St. John Nepomucene
two bells, like us, drone
as you speak, the sound of the Chinese couple is louder:
“We should go into this room… filled with artefacts…”
“No, here, let's stay…”
******* for saying you're leaving.
I have the urge to pound you with one of those rocks on a ledge so you are trapped here
“Can you imagine this place filled with people?”
you wouldn't belong anyway
you have no affinity for red tiles scattered amongst grey
or the all-encompassing silence of the venue
there is a concrete slab on the left where I could lay you down and take off those glasses
and pour myself into you
so you would take pictures of me
so you wouldn't move to New York
I can't fathom people filling this place
because it should really house two souls instead.

III. Mirador
the number on the floor by the fountain is the amount of times I've said no to you while standing out here
I'll tag another 0 on, just to be safe
the red roofs look like my skin after I've sat all day at the beach at Sperlonga
you almost drowned
your footsteps on the gravel are ominous and even when I look through the telescope I can't see you
I pick a point on the horizon – the blue cubist building; the odd one out – and stare blankly
that guitarist playing “Oh Darling” reminds me of the first time you called me that and I want to smash it so violently
I find myself staring at the trio of scruffy young bearded men instead of you
“What are you saying?! It was at least this big…” one of them says.
he looks like you but the you before you moved to New York
you lean on the upside down heart iron fence and say for the 15th time that you still love me
I'm pushing you over the fence now onto the path below
the garden will still look lovely after you fall
instead I pick another building – pink with white windows and a black roof – and stare
it blinks its eyes and speaks: “Leave.”
you're in the middle of saying how much you loved the fish last night and I break:
“I'm gone.”

I always feared when I was young

that my blue veins would bulge out of my hands

like yours
they are now deft with our flesh
you prop us up,

tchotchkes on a shelf
talk of your impending spring funeral,
peonies and tulips

take off
“***** donor” on your health card
because they’ve already been given to us

at seven in North York you
danced to Elton John by the front window,
ducking at the sight of headlights

I can avoid you like
rush hour traffic if it would save you
the trouble

We're like two subways passing each other in a tunnel, you and I
There are lights that dot the sides of tunnel,
attempting to guide us through,
but we hardly acknowledge them.
We can see each other in the darkness,
the subtle outline of metal,
the red and white indicators of our existence.
We're carrying so many people in our cars,
people from our past that sit in cars,
each representing different stages of who we are.
And we try and steer these subways through the dark,
searching for one another.
Yours just as full as mine.
The rickety tracks push metal against metal that ring through the hollow of our ears.
And we become distracted by this screeching,
this friction between the rails and our wheels,
and lose sight of each other.
Every station we pull into -
Museum, Queen's Park, St. Patrick -
we expect to catch a glimpse of one another -
going in opposite directions but comforted by the fact that we are in the same station.
We might pick up the same passenger but at different locations,
at different times.
Our paths cross haphazardly.
But I keep wishing that one day
all the lights will point towards me,
and your wheels will stop inches from mine.
And you will look into my cars
and see all those people that have made me,
and I will look into your cars and see all the people that made you
and you will realize
and you will say
"I don't want to keep going from station to station.
I've found my passenger."

I couldn’t

be further from the truth now even if I tried.
We broke up

on Sunday and one week later, C tells me that a moon is now

orbiting her planet.
When we were young, I would always complain
that she was growing faster

my breath was taut
the rain was enraged
and the car was thick
and she had thought it through.

and on Night One I drank
myself from Tiny Beaches
back to Toronto
in my mind
to see you

and on Day Two, C swelled
at the sun and I remembered
our summers lining Queen Street
to see famous faces in June

and on Night Three:
a strummed aria,
twelve cigarettes,
mason jar tears,
warm bodies
and bear rugs.

C was too tired to drive home
the apathetic sun
and foreign limbs pressing
behind her eyes.

it takes 8 hours and 1 minute to get to Gansevoort Street

they say to truly love someone
you must know them through all four seasons

barricaded branches prevented you from coming February 6th

black leather interior seemed like the perfect place

to evaporate
like a cigarette outside Baby Huey
punch holes in your arm like a belt
so a finger can’t trace it

without being caught
hornets under Dixie cups
razored wings carve out this body
phantom knee, nerve extension
push your thumb into its stump

regret pushing the willow
walking the length of dead grass to a childhood hub
a reminder of which sits on your bedside
as an 8-year-old pilot
spearheading a UAV to TOR

Dundas Square sees you in an amber light.

Benches are wooden or plastic or metal but they allow for a connection, a meeting place for two people who somehow become connected and intertwined and woven, like the branches of trees; they grow on each other, something blooms between them and sprouts and you believe that you cannot live without the other person, they are your sunlight and your water and that soft bird that perches on your shoulder, they see your history, the rings of your trunk, all the years you spent wishing and hoping for that one person and then:

you meet on this bench, a piece of hand-crafted wood, in a park downtown, and you talk and you laugh and you make each other smile and you sit without talking and the silence is good... but then clouds form and the silence is unbearable and you feel like you want to explode and break and smash if the silence continues so you whisper and then talk and then yell and the heat brings you closer, you retrace all of those places, you look back on the map of your connection and remember all the landmarks that you saw and lived through together and it is as if no space existed as if your hearts grew and swelled for each other and brought you back and you lie and embrace and breathe again together and it's comfortable

but then you turn, he turns back, on it all, everything, and you try and search his face, look again on that map and try to remember, you make yourself remember but he sees another path near this bench, near you but not with you, and decides to walk down it and you want him to take your hand and ask you to go but you know deep, deep down that he won't, that he can't, so you try and you say those deadly, poisonous words, those three words that change everything whether you want it to or not
and he looks at you
and he sees you

but he can't take you with him
so he gets up and lifts one foot in front of the other and
he walks away from you.

how often I wish for 91 Brunswick Ave
compressed together in a claw foot,
your flesh my home
cakes baked in too shallow pans
I forget what song was playing when
you told me you loved me.

how often I wish for the freeway between
Cocoa Beach and Orlando,
a friendly chaperone asleep in the back
hands knotted thinking:
“this is ours”

how often I think of August bonfires
the terror of an international move
“you would be a day ahead of me for ten weeks”
I felt stronger than the 100-year-old ruins we were
standing in

how often I wish for The Standards,
High Line and East Village,
bacon cocktails and antiquated photobooths and
windswept harbour panoramas
my insubstantial voice begging
“don’t turn the red light off,
I need you to see where my bones shattered
and pierced my skin”

it rained the day after Christmas and

you said you’d prefer snow.
it reminded me of London

so I kept my mouth shut and pushed your hands
further between my legs.
“eat my pineapple,” I instructed
as the *** coated my tongue.
“carry me through

the tiki bar and do pushups in the empty
space while I brush my lips on your temple.”

we were married on the corner
of Queen and Dunn;
our officiant on one knee, clad in blue knit
I

never thought I’d be here.

across oceans you recessed
further into my insomniac brain.
your eyes are green, right?
turn around:

it’s less romantic if there’s no eye contact.
track our distance across my sternum --
I’ve never been to Azerbaijan.
I took advantage of the fact that you were wearing black
and forgot to outline my
shape in chalk.

I want to fill your mouth with pennies

I’ll pull your intestines out with my teeth

your hands are cacti,
your eyes rolled backward
like your rolling papers over kush

I am a cricket,
you are a size 11 shoe

I am click bait for your insecurities:

“self-deprecating,
emotionally vulnerable Canadian
seeks love and fidelity”

am I enticing?

I sat at your window and waited
to see you come up the drive

I am fiction

at the lake where I spent my childhood
you pressed your cheek to the sand

as I held the hand of my 6-year-old self in the water

you left yourself in my mouth
and I am still picking out your remnants
from my teeth

I see no better solution

than to hack away at my joints

and mail them to you

with the note,

“I share this with you”

I.
she scratches her back,
marking territory on translucent skin
they are of the same opacity -
as if upon meeting they scanned each other’s bones
to ensure strength
one has a way of smiling
where her lips pull against her gums
and the other has the tendency
to flip the pillow to the cold side before sleeping
they are never not entwined
they never had to get used to
two sets of bras in the dryer,
a hairbrush constantly covered with
each other’s blonde hair,
never using the condoms in their jewelry boxes
it was easy
is easy
when one asked the other
for a matching tattoo,
she put her partner’s initials on the soles of her feet

II.
the birthday party was in full swing by mid-afternoon
no one in the party had hair any lighter than charcoal
and the birthday girl was four, wearing only one shoe
all the women were clad in floral bikinis;
the ripples of their stretched skin on full display
in this circle, they honed their cultural energy
with coconut water and bongo drums
the guest of honour was passed out within an hour,
but they had come all this way
and wanted to make the most of it

III.
the night before she had found herself
entwined with a bodybuilder ten years her senior
she turned her hands over and over,
checking for signs that she had changed
but as the dog licked the inside of her legs
she was at peace with the fact that she always
belonged in a stranger’s bed
he said she felt good
and pressed welts passionately onto her ***
he wanted to take her sailing on the lake the following day
but she preferred to sit on a man-made sugared beach alone

you said you came twice but I
never felt you tighten around me.
I

wish you would look at me when it happened so I could see
what you looked like when
you peaked.
I couldn’t take my

eyes off your ribs as you
pushed each breath between
the bones.
You look happiest when you face away from me.

I’ve counted the pale hairs on your arms and I know

exactly what you look like the moment you fall asleep
but
you’ve pushed me into corners at parties
and
you hit me with a pan last week
and never apologized
and
when I tell you I miss you, you say
“How? We just spent 5 hours together.”

The first time I saw you
you were sitting in an empty bathtub,

a beer in one hand, and frat boys smoking joints around you

you said you’d never seen Star Wars
and you used to catch moths as a child.

You repeated my name twelve times that night
while I grabbed your hair
and your nails carved letters into the bark of my body.

Your face pressed my chest
and now it presses a pillow.

Your sighs sound exhausted,
not exalted.

I told you I loved you and
you said
“That word is used far too often.”

let me be her
that girl;
the one you have to block from your newsfeed because even the sight of me; even the thought that I still walk around unfazed burns your skin
I wanna be that girl that you see walking on Queen West and think:
“that will be the girl I starve myself for”
I strive to be that girl who tears out all your organs and pickles them in jars,
your kidneys and spleen and gall bladder –
and shelves them on display for all to see
“these are all the hearts I’ve stolen
are you sure you want to climb into my bed?”
I am that girl whose shampoo you buy and sniff in between gulps of Jameson
I am the girl whose grin makes your bones shatter
I am the girl whose eyes make your whole body dissolve into a river,
and then you’re swept away by my laughter
finally I’ll get to be the one who ruins all your favourite places for you
I’ll be the one who makes you put barriers up, guards and gates around your heart to prevent its inevitable breakage
I’ll get to be that girl who makes you weep at the thought of anyone else loving you
I will be her
that is my goal
I don’t want to be that girl who extends her pinky and then her hand and then her arm and then is thrown forward into your arms and is held by no one when you leave
I can’t be that girl who spins tales of you and me and my cousin’s wedding or you and me, doing the lap dance from Death Proof for you, or you and me smiling for a picture in front of an aquarium with the hashtag #thisguy
I am no longer that girl who becomes a ghost when you don’t say a word to me
I am not that girl who tells you how cute you are and how ******* smiley I am when I see you
I am not that girl who gets left
no,
this time:
I get to disappear
I get to walk away and leave you for an Asian guy (girl)
I get to unfollow you on Instagram because looking at pictures of you at the ocean makes me feel guilty
I get to be pretend that I am unharmed;
that I lit the fire but I’m not becoming ashes
I get to have people tell me they want to take me out for coffee, or sit by the water, or hold my hand at that ******* aquarium
I’m that girl now –
her:
the one your fear most
because I am
a caterpillar,
a peacock,
a fox,
and you are the forest floor,
and the desert sand,
and the thinnest branch,
and I will walk all over
and break you.

how I fall in love:
unexpectedly and uncertainly
usually under the guide of wine or whiskey, depending on my mood
drowning in a blur of voices and bursts of bright lights
an aura surrounds you; something jumps out at me
tattoos, or a woollen hat
a remark is made,
obvious or otherwise,
about your person
I can’t really see you clearly but I can tell who you are
your eyes are bright
rimmed with red, just like the amber Jameson you’ve downed
but they shine
you shine
I fall backwards into the ocean that are your eyes
I am smiling
when you hold me, I m e l t,
blend into you
I feel stable and erratic all at once
afraid to disappear completely into you
but wanting so much to
your arms are warm, humble and all-encompassing
you hold me
my tongue finds your both inside your mouth and out
it freely expresses how much I need
for once, we are speaking the same language
of patience and comfort and ease
and although I feel free and easy
inside, I race
my heart and thoughts
am I in love with you because you are in love with me?
afraid to
wait,
to give in to your attention to detail to the shape of my body moulded against yours
to the unease and confusion that plagues my mind
to the baggage I am carrying on all my limbs as I am lifted into your arms
to me and what I want
I can’t give you everything just yet
there’s a lock on what I will save until the perfect moment:
when we are laying in bed
yours or mind, no difference
and that secret or feeling or thought is pulsating, vibrating, screaming to be said
and because you are warm
and bright
and a knight of valour
I will say it
all of it
and I will fall backwards into the ocean that are your eyes
and allow myself to be saved from drowning by you.

The

parlour empties after the third song.
You tell me

you need a cigarette and dump the accordion on my lap.
The fog seeps in as you

open the front door
and I worry because you’re wearing black.

I worry because you’ve never offered me a cigarette
or asked

to go for a walk at midnight.
The champagne sticks to my fingers
and I wished I’d grabbed your hand
and said
“I’ll go with you.”

bubble up to

the surface.
your perforated skin swallows
my wayward tears
I sit in vivacious waters;
your eyes my captain.
your

beauty is kinetic – yet stillness becomes you.
I’ll read one more poem before you uncover the core
of my shriveled

skin
each time we step in, our waters are forgiving –
scorching only patches of us while I rub out the redness with ScarGuard
in our waters:

you grow three bubble beards
and I
submerge myself under running taps
and we coat our lips with soap to press against each other

your every angle catches light

I’ll swaddle you in terrycloth and carry you
to save you from the raging jets –
our former trysts swirling down the drain
kiss me so the heated water will go from you to me
I’ll disappear beneath the surface to guide you up

find my tender hands in this hollowed mould

the musician on stage in front of a

rack of shoes looks like you,
although it may be

the fog of the free beer.
It smells like the 70s and even though I
never experienced it firsthand,

the red velvet pants on the rack next to me
take me back in time.
Surrounded by a trio of girls in striped shirts –
the three blind mice –
**** on lollipops
and there are too many jean jackets to count.

I can’t stop thinking about my arms around your neck
on a park bench

let’s go to Niagara Falls, or Pompeii

there are some soaps in the shape of fingers at the store next door
and I can wrap them around your arms
while we listen to Born Ruffians
and they’ll sing:

It ***** when you find someone
but they don’t find you.

based on the painting “Prince Pig and The Second Sister” by Paula Rego

my hooves meant nothing

to her. She sat in my lap and stroked my chest
as if she was the

prince. It took everything in her power to reassure me
that I wouldn’t be slaughtered in the morning, but she looked
past me – an empty

gaze. Come dinnertime tomorrow I would sit on a platter and
she would feed off of me with an apple stuffed in my mouth
and a knife in

my shoulder. On some level, I cannot blame her – her hair is
caught between my hooves when we make love, and my grunting
keeps her up at night. She is worthy of soft fur

and slender fingers. I am desired, but only until I am fat enough to eat.
Her legs tighten on my hips but she is cold, like the chamber where
my blood will drain.

top 5 things I miss about you:

1) the sunburn on the back of your legs
    the
    way you flinched at the touch of aloe;
    peeling off your skin
    layer by layer

2) dancing high in your room to Pulp Fiction;
     trying desperately not to wake your parents,
     standing in your
     driveway as minutes feel like hours

3) our horrific inability to take
    a single good photobooth picture

4) driving
    driving home from the beach,
    sand
    coating your mats
    sitting in cars writing poems,
    while you wrench tires underneath me
    pulling into parking garages to photograph
    torn stockings against the car’s blue
    exterior
    your hand on my thigh driving back from Ludlow,
    as I am fast asleep
    breaking your backseat as I ****** myself into you
    you naming it after me

5) your drunken texts;
    your colloquial musings at 3 a.m.
    your
    professions,
    your proclamations
    waking up your grounded words,
    despite your swaying body.
  
    I long for your surprise pronouncements
    while I sleep alone 551 kilometers away.

possesses a stillness I am jealous of
it is, simply
no questions or concerns as to how or why it came to be
it breathes freely,
"here I am, take me or leave me"

if only I could be what water is:
rapid, brave, moving with purpose
most times I sit between states of movement and stillness
and even as it changes, water,
it does so unapologetically
it is so sure of itself
as it transforms to snow
or boils under pressure
it makes the choice to move
to constantly transform and shift

I want to be as clear as water:
open and vulnerable
not vapid and transparent
when people see water they can see what’s beneath the surface,
but not far enough to the bottom
leaving the sand or swamp or pool tiles to conceal the truth
I wish when I held water between my hands
that the truth would stay behind
everything else would fall away
and I would hold that small piece of truth in my hands

water is cleansing and pure and uninhibited
and so I want to be the same
smelling like rain and winter simultaneously
to burn and yet also wash
to freeze time and space
to fill every vessel I inhabit and be safe

now I feel as though I am a
waterfall,
a riptide,
a tsunami,
raging and wrecking,
unable to contain my shape
I want to be a spring,
a stream,
or a fountain,
where people look for solace and don’t run in fear
where I am admired and gathered around
and not avoided for fear of drowning
I want to catch sunlight on the surface of my skin and reflect a prism of colours,
not a shadow of darkness and doubt
I want someone to drink me in and consume me,
and not boil me in a *** to evaporate

let me flow
let me course
let me land
watch me transform
but don’t let me freeze.

gnawing

at my lapel, you beg for me to stay

you push me further onto the pavement on Lexington
and your hot breath

glistens on my neck.
“you’ve changed,” I say,
as your eyes lose colour and hair sprouts behind your eyes

I used to sit on your chest and
paint your body with my favourite

colour
and you would carry me on your back
so my feet wouldn’t be wet when it rained

but since the full moon
you hover above me while I sleep
and your hairy

hands feel foreign on my body

and here, on Lexington, my new silk dress is ruined

no more thrashing
no more howling
no more public indecency on 29th and 9th

“you’ve changed,” I say,
as I heave you off me
and grab my bag off the floor

I.
my roommate is
an extended sigh
she wakes up every morning and
makes French-press coffee,
which is foreign in my household
she has a soft heart,
liked a bruised peach
and when I smoke **** in the evenings
she talks about art house films
over sautéed cucumbers
and I pretend to listen

II.
I read somewhere this morning
that you should replace all your
“I’m sorrys”
with
“thank yous”
like, instead of
“sorry I am such a mess”
it should be
“thank you for loving me unconditionally
thank you for wanting to have my name coat your tongue
thank you for refurbishing my past like an antique dresser”
I haven’t once spoken these words
since being with you

III.
I walked down College without headphones
I could hear my blood’s humming voice
I carried the same three treats I bought with you:
a brownie
a s’mores bar
a Ruffles chip marshmellow square
at Crawford, I could hear you in the box
scratching like a rat
when I got home,
I lit a candle
and ravenously ate you on my bed

animal heads float above the surface

sheep’s matted wool and dead rats amongst the debris

worst rainfall since 1911, and

I am all alone.
the confines of this bucket dig into my lower back
and wet metal indents my calves

I hope you, too, have a bucket
my love

for although your legs are sturdy
you cannot hold yourself above the roofs
the plaster walls breaking off and sticking to your skin,
imprinting

memories of others onto you

but remember:
the crème brûlée at 3 a.m. after you returned from the docks
and the drunken dances in the kitchen to BB King’s voice

maybe my wedding dress is drifting

between the gardens and
I can wear it when our buckets meet somewhere along this natural disaster
-- the fragmented filled canal --
and you would immediately recognize its bell sleeves

amongst the damp wood
and loose shingles

my favourite

part about being drunk is when
I hold the end of a cigarette by the flame
it doesn’t burn my fingers

I am invincible

I love when I’m drunk
and you weave your fingertips through
the holes in my tights

close but not enough

if I’m drunk enough I’ll let you
walk me back to your apartment in Bushwick

the hallways looking
like The Overlook Hotel

while you push me onto your bed and tell me
all you want to do is lay naked next to me

next thing you know I am your outlet

I am a thousand resonating nos

mine is every body you’ve ever wanted
covered with glass

and you wind my hair around your palm
and I am drunk
off the New York skyline
off the back of an Audi
off a taco truck in a bar

that I submit
and I beg you
to fill all my holes

I am reflected.
every day, I sit framed
or stand,
or walk past
a frame
reflected,
me
at times I pass this frame and see all of me
other times, I am missing
other times even, I recede
to a former self
I see me at fifteen:
brown haired, blue eyed
starving for love behind the pane of a computer screen
I used to watch myself framed
and dissect every feature
too many hairs out of place,
metal upon metal inside a mouth that either spoke too much or hardly enough
no mind of my own
sometimes I see her,
fifteen,
through the reflection of the subway doors
as a couple tenderly caress each other behind me
fifteen whispers softly through those doors:
“love me too”
as the train pulls into the station
and other times, I see ten reflected
ten,
rabbit teeth and soft hands
a burst of fireworks
disappearing between pages
once I saw her by the harbour
floating on the surface of a body of water holding three islands
the sun was gone
she saw me crying and said:
“don’t leave me”
ten,
and rain fell on her cheeks
I couldn’t tell if they were my tears or the sky’s
and other times,
rarely,
I see five
blunt bangs,
shining smile,
brave spirit,
she was the beginning of my strength
hearing very little but feeling it all,
seeing,
I saw her in a jewelry box,
five,
bold and brass
strands of pearl and gold and emerald might have clouded her otherwise
but she s h o n e
she said, as she always did,
“tell me a story”
I used to tell of a mermaid lost at sea,
or a doll brought to life,
but all I could think of this:
a woman is trapped in a mirror
twenty-two
fixated on this face she has witnessed evolve
she sees the specks of blue laced with green of her eyes
documents the crackled skin on her lips
breathes in the musty and city smell of her hair
she sees the lines and cracks on her hands
and the way she hunches and fidgets
but she cannot move from this mirror,
this frame,
because she is afraid to move forward without looking back
in this mirror lives
twenty-two
fifteen
ten
and
five
and she loses herself in them
trying to lock in all their features
once, before becoming trapped,
this woman walked by the window of a vintage store
and when she turned to catch herself, she saw nothing
she wants to see everything
always
catch glimpses of
twenty-two
fifteen
ten
and
five
everywhere, always
but she wants to be reminded
and not haunted
“show me your teeth”
she wishes,
“let me see you smile”
and now I am – the woman – is coming to realize
that maybe she will never be free from the trap of the mirror
maybe she will always see herself reflected
but that, in itself,
is a gift:
to see oneself reflected
to know where you have come from,
and where you are going.

a sea of green
and we are swimming in it
some drowning, others floating
this park
full of bright, full and illustrious green
and we are scattered,
finding our way
searching for that one tree that calls us forward
the bench that will cradle us as we cover it in tears
the penumbra in the open space
this park holds us
a hub of nature in a metal box
the centre
surrounded by equal bursts of laughter, a chirp, a ball hitting a mitt, a hush of wind through trees, the rumble of a streetcar
once I believed and wished I could bring someone to this park
like this couple, intertwined on a yellow towel,
hands and feet so tangled it is as if they sit in a cocoon,
I used to wish that I could take someone through the green,
swimming until we find a shore,
a space for us,
instead I watch dark haired men kick a ball
back and forth,
back and forth
under the backdrop of that tower
and I watch five girls in grey and black be immortalized in a camera,
leaning on trees,
and smiling vividly,
and I see a white dog be consumed by the thought of catching this tiny ball,
it is his world
and as I watch these people.
I wonder if they watch me
if they watched me that day I fell
that day I stumbled to that bench by the diamond
two people sit on it now, surrounded by bikes
but they don’t know that I melted there
I dissolved into a pool of salt
I still can’t remember my trajectory through this park, but maybe they do
maybe I should ask that broad shouldered man what my breath sounded like
or that woman with the toddler how I walked
or that purple haired girl what I was doing with my hands
I don’t remember
but I continue to return
this sea of green
is where I drowned
but where, amongst the brush,
I pushed my way through
I dived through those leaves and pushed back those branches and let the thorns scrape my skin
and I emerged
near the marble arch, on the cobbled streets
I rose to the surface of that arch and I floated
and I must remind myself
every time I come through that entry
not to sink
to swim,
to float
in this green
to look up and see the surface, dotted with clouds
painted with blue
and see the yellow smile that brushes its way onto my face
and feel safe
I am found in this sea.
I am me in this sea.

a schoolgirl found me in
High Park with my hands
clutched to my chest
on a red

sheet, under a dead cherry blossom
the dress I was wearing was
the one you gave me to celebrate

our underwhelming tax rebate
and the fact that I was eating again
the examiner said I looked
apathetic,

like dying was the next item on my to-do list

I could have sworn I had only taken
                           2
                         (22)
pink

ones to match the blossoms
the *** sleeping on the bench was my new best friend
and the barista at Starbucks asked for my name

and I realized
I hadn’t been asked that in months;
                       my name
                      my blood type
                      my ETA
what colour was the mole on my stomach?
and when did I first learn to

ride a bike?

the last time I smiled was
June 17, 2013.
In the paper they put a picture of it
and wrote “Woman Found”
they should’ve put a close-up
of my hollow eyes.

I.
I think you would look brighter with a fresh coat of paint –
a pale blue would suit
your face looks red,
like someone described to you
how you looked in your skimpiest underwear,
like he used to say how much he loved
pushing down on your hips,
melting you into your aqua sheets

II.
the cherry blossoms look promising this time of year
I feel a longing to chop them down
and press them into all the books I own
I promise you that I will comb my hair 100 times in return
I will iron out the stretch marks on my skin –
I won’t pull at it, I promise!
stay vibrant

III.
in the middle of the night,
while I am surrounded by strangers,
home will call and exclaim:
I made fresh scones
and the smell followed me all the way to the top of the tower!
and
I finally took two steps
towards the German shepherd
that terrorizes me on the way
to Christie Pits!
and
he told me my eyes were like
the blue of his favourite childhood jean jacket –
he told me I felt like home.

IV.
my two brothers might have long, swaying limbs when I touch down
mom’s arms might wrap three times around me
she will say,
“I love your peonies growing the length of your spine”
and water them as I lie on my stomach
dad will have feet made of concrete
but his body will still be like palm leaves
I will have to laugh at my own jokes
and ice my own bruised knees
for a while

V.
above all, I wish for the following:
sturdy legs that don’t give out after I’ve walked the length of a strange station
searching for a runaway train
a glimmer from the sweet Parisian rain and the blissful Spanish sun
a new set of lenses with broad castles and rough cliffs and extensive oceans
a jar full of foreign voices, bright smiles, truths
and the fullest heart –
I hope to find me.

the first

time I taste it is on the subway going southbound to Osgoode Station,

red as sweet and sour sauce, incandescent and pure.
You hold it to my

lips and watch as I inhale its bitter air.
The last time is one hour ago,
when you push me to my knees and force

it down my throat.
It tastes like cotton.
You look at me with eyes like a disapproving parent
and I scrape away to its core.
I feel

the acid slide down my throat as you shove me
over the couch and watch me writhe.
Your serpent.
I wear the same blue and yellow dress as the subway ride.
It gathers at my hips now,
as I clutch at my throat
and look at my prince.

Lessons I learned from 22:

1) You may be a cat person, but that doesn’t mean you love everyone’s cats. This is simply an indication that you should never take your cats for granted again.

2) Lobster grilled cheese sounds fantastic to celebrate a new year, but if it leaves you up all night in agony: don’t eat it.

3) If a guy calls you up and asks you to come over and **** him on his half hour lunch break: don’t do it. You are not a ******* and are worth more than a half hour.

4) Don’t ever go back to places that take you out of your body and back into your head, replaying moments that once were vibrant but are now clouded with noise. Don’t ever set yourself up to feel your skin boil or your eyes shift back and forth between the spots you once sat in or, or kissed in, or fell apart in. Instead, surround yourself with bright lights and warm fires and laughter because you must always be reminded of everything that has built you up and not struck you down.

5) If he burns a hole through your stomach, he isn’t worth it. If he makes you worry over the smallest text back, he isn’t worth it. If he hates that you dressed up for him and “no one comes here in anything but jeans”, he isn’t worth it. If he makes your re-evaluate your sanity he isn’t worth it. If he gives you the love you want but not the love you need, leave. You don’t deserve to have holes where you used to be.
You don’t need to avoid entire streets and parks and spaces because you see his ghost there.
You are allowed to inhabit this place you’ve called home without fear of shattering.
He is worth nothing and you are everything.

6) If you slay yourself open and paint the pages of your books with your blood and breathe heavily into the ink and produce something that makes you proud, than that is worth its weight in gold, pearl and sapphire. Do not allow one person or group of people’s words undermine the guts you have to put yourself on display.

7) If she holds your hand and then severs your limb, allow it to grow back but never to fit in her palm again.
This goes for all limbs.
She cannot squeeze your hand tightly with the intention of reminding you of your self-eruption and then expect to tenderly caress it with words of apology.
If your limb is gone, then so is she.
You will grow a stronger one in its place that will be impenetrable.

8) Sometimes you have to stand in front of a wall inscribed with all of the worst things you have said and you must read them and ingest them and take account for all of them. Even those said drunkenly. Because those worth belong to you and you can’t walk away from them. Besides, they will be a reminder of how ******/******/annoying/****** up you can be.

9) If you look into the future and see no image of what are you are doing but see where you are and who you are doing it with – that is happiness. That is your goal. The missing pieces will turn up later, maybe somewhere you didn’t expect.

10) Your family is your ultimate confidant. They have seen where you have come from and will unapologetically support you and carry your weight when you are nothing. They will wait in the ER with you when they have to work at 6 the next morning, they will drive to your apartment to pick you up and feed you your first meal in 4 months, they will remind you of what you were and push you back to where you came from but encourage where you’re going.
You are transparent to them and that is only good for you.

From 22, and now for 23:

1. Swiping left on a superficial app connected you with the person who now consumes your thoughts. The person you want to share grilled cheeses with, whom you want to take to your favourite places, and the person you wish more than anything to call your own.
He sees you. His glasses only shield him from the light he shines on you. Don’t forget to look down from the pedestal he has put you on. Feel the crown he has bestowed upon you.
Don’t think of the distance as a curse but as a blessing.
Don’t think of time as expansive but as a succession of moments built up until when you finally see each other again.
He is an anomaly, he is air, he is a sunset.
More often than sometimes, I say go for it.

2. Although you might not want to admit it, the energy you have put forth out into the universe has finally been rewarded and you need to grab onto it and turn it over and over and examine every crevice and inch of this place you have dreamed to go to and come back with exhausted eyes from seeing its landscape and your fingers bruised from feeling its people and your breath elongated from speaking your truth.

3. Don’t be afraid of switches being turned on and off and people entering and exiting and being pushed out of a wardrobe and into a new room you’ve never been in.
You’ve never been good with change, but you should embrace it to continue your path.

4) Light, not darkness.
Replace and recharge the battery if it empties.
Leave if you feel like falling.
Go home if you forget who you are.
Laughter and dancing and lights and sparks and yes and breathe…
If you can’t remember what you look like there will always be something around to check your reflection in.
There will always be someone there to tell you the story of how you sat by a planter and made him weak in the knees.
There will always be a voice on the line that reminds you that you are a dog, not a duck, but that just means you have to work harder to shake off the water.
Always remind yourself.
Remember and read your mind.