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Rebecca McDade Feb 2014
How many people know you?
Know how many times you roll up
   the cuffs of your sleeves when it’s warm?
Or know how many sugars
   you take in your tea?
Or how you handle yellow bees?  
How many people know what
   you tell yourself before you go to sleep?
Do you count sheep?
Or the stars on your ceiling?  
Or your scars that are healing?
Do people know you have those?
Nobody knows.

How many people know you?
Know how much you resent the gap
   between your teeth?
Or what number you group things in
   when you’re counting?
Or what the smile on each side
   of your face means?
Or where to find the seams
Where you’ve been torn open
   just a bit.
Where those little slits
   under your raised eyebrow are.
Do people look hard?

How many people know you?  
Know about how much having dirt under
   your fingernails drives you mad?
Or how you don’t like to
   drive in the rain?
And how you add brown sugar
   to everything?
And how you wish you had wings
To fly away over all these people
   who think they know you
When they don’t.
They don’t know the first thing.
But they never will.
You won’t let them in.

How many people know you?

Rebecca McDade Feb 2014
When I wake up in the morning
When I open my eyes
   for the first time in the day,
I am orange.
Like the moments between blinks
   and the glow on the horizon
   and my unkept hair
sitting whispy on my head.
As I get out of bed,
I am orange.

When I am walking down the road
As I’m passing people I don’t know
   and who don’t know me,
I am purple.
Like the bright darkness of possibility
   that we all can’t see yet
   and the faded fabric of mens’ jackets
which I’ll never wear.
When I’m walking there,
I am purple.

When I’m sitting beside him
With our knees touching
   under the table,
I am red.
Like the table cloth I picked out special
   and the apples on the counter
   and the blood that’s rushing
too fast between my ears.
When I’m sitting here,
I am red.

But when I’m sitting by myself,
Alone in my room
   calm and quiet,
I am blue.
Like the song that is playing
   and the rain keeping time
   and the glow from the computer screen
where I try not to live my life
but to which I’m prone.
When I’m alone,
I am blue.

It’s a real shame
that blue is my
Rebecca McDade Feb 2014
I’m sorry that I’m broken,
that I’m sprawled out on the floor
that I’m crumpling into pieces
as you open up my door.
I’m sorry that I'm broken,
that I leave trails wherever I go
and that I never tell you how I feel
so how I am you never know.
I’m sorry that I’m broken,
that I always am unkept
and I’m sorry for those long nights
for me that you have wept.
I’m sorry that I’m broken,
that I’m never in ‘good health’
but I want you to know, I’ll be okay -
I’m trying to fix myself.
Rebecca McDade Feb 2014
I want to be a part of you.
A part of you you miss
when it’s raining
   and all you want is to
   feel my heat under the blankets,
or when you’re driving
   with the windows down
   pretending to be in a music video,
and when it’s night time
   and counting all the stars is
   impossible without me there.
I just want to be a part of you,
Like you are of me.
Rebecca McDade Feb 2014
The little lady in the
pink jacket and strappy shoes
passed a man who’s
outfit, she thought,
cost less than her new handbag.
She scoffed.

The tall man in
his father’s good jacket
passed a lady who’s
tight dress, he guessed,
took too long to put on.
He shook his head.

They looked at each other.
Then looked away.

The man who watched them
for the other side of the shop window
reckoned he’d write a love song about them.
Rebecca McDade Feb 2014
Stretched out
   in your Sunday morning way
with your mouth
slightly open
and your hands, together,
curled up by your jaw,
you look like
   the best thing
   that has happened to me.
Rebecca McDade Feb 2014
I want to be the quiet girl
   who every boy falls in love with.
I want my sideways smile
   to steal the hearts
   of anyone who steals a glance
   at it from the side.
I want to be fragile,
   so that people want to
   take care of me
   as soon as they see me
   with my knees curled up
   on a chair that is too big.
I want to be the stuff of novels,
   and of films,
   and of love songs
   whose melodies are
   picked out on a guitar.
I want the idea of me
   to be so delicate
   and so alluring
   that I’ll never have to worry
   about being hurt.
I want to be a beautiful
   heart breaker -
   the one that they tell their
   brothers, mothers, and sons about.
I want to be
   what they describe as
   the best thing that ever happened
   to them.
I want to be
I want to be
I want to be all the things I’m not.
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