No one ever gives me flowers,
but I was given a rose,
I hung it upside down
and let it dry
and turn crisp.
My room is now empty save for the rose.
I untie it from the ceiling and carry it outside.
The blood red rose is now black
and trembles to pieces at my touch.
I snap it
and let it crumble
into a stream
and let the water
wash it
away.

you are red lipstick stains on white wine glasses
and the pale blue smoke
of a cigarette

the hot tang of fruit perfume
and sticky, sloppy kisses

graph paper, ballpoint pens, coffee with milk,
Christmas lights, *****, socks

you're ice cubes in hot tea and
boots in the snow and lace curtains
and most of all you're slow, uninhibited
conversations at 2am

you are laughter and candles and
I'll never be cold again

and your eyes aren't quite one color
and they aren't quite another
but they sure are lively
and they sure are bright

I want you and a pile of blankets and
a rhythm of raindrops on the roof

and we'll pretend to hate domesticity
while we cook food together and
work on chemistry

well, I've spent a long time hating
myself and a lot of time trying to fix
what I now know wasn't broken

but when I've got the soft dizziness
of an alcohol stupor and a handful
of your hair and you tell me I feel
"right," it's easy to forget that I was
ever so sad

It's easier to breathe.

I still want to die.



But you make me want to put it off for a little longer.

and suddenly-
all the minor boys
all the petty crushes
vanished into thin air,

the only thing that mattered was him.

he is a lovely person
with lovely hair
and lovely thoughts--
he is the only one
I do not feel scared of,
one I could let see me cry
and tell all my feelings
every little thought I have
and all of my truth,
never a lie.

He is one who makes me warm
he is one who makes me happy
he is one who makes me feel
like I may yet, be important.

I feel what he feels
and I know how it hurts,
I only wish I could make him happy
make him never sad
and the thought
that he may
on occasion
feel like I do every day
horrifies me
and makes me weep,
for he is a good soul
who could do me no harm,
a man the world has wronged,
a truly lovely person
who deserves
no such pain.

Peace is hearing Sinatra sing again.

I want to give you up,
put down the pen.
I want to stop writing
about all these awful feelings
I can only announce
through tacky rhymes
to strangers I'll never know.

I hope some day,
I won't have to write poetry.