I’m grateful for everything I’ve been given
you say, squeezing my hand. And I stare
at your perfect skin.
Your words sound like forever, but eternity
isn’t something I’ve read about.
Stuffy hymns sung on pitch
but with no inflection.
Your voice is flat,
and it’s then I’m glad
I wore this dress.
I have seen loss-
and that’s something your naivety
can’t grasp.
I scratch at the skin,
because it’s pulled too tight.
I can still count the stark white stitches.
Still ride my fingers along
the valleys of my arm,
tracing out a maze.
It will never change;
the way it glares when I’m naked
next to you.
Next to you I always feel exposed.
Keep wishing to be invisible,
but you won’t close your eyes.
Don’t kiss my skin,
it’s not soft enough.
Don’t turn the light on,
you’ll be disappointed.
You run your fingers
along the canyons of my arm,
trying to smooth away my imperfection.
But I cover it up.
I put up barriers;
I protect you-
you’re not ready to accept the damage
I’ve sustained.Too harsh
for your blindly faithful eyes.
Still numb-
your efforts would be wasted.
My fingers caress privilege
when they graze your chest,
but me,
I’m patched together,
my feelings handed out piecemeal.
That’s what I keep trying to tell you.
There are just no parts left
for me to give.
You can touch me all you want,
but you can’t bring life back ;
forever petrified in place.
Don’t thank me, I’ve given you nothing.
Nothing delicate left here for your lips to taste.
Don’t thank them, They’ve made you believe
in perfection,
in salvation.
There’s nothing sacred left here for you to worship.
My skin still too cold, your words all fall flat.

I refuse to look at you, yet
I can still feel your breath- hot
With venomous words.
Each one slides off the ***** of a smile.
Each one pierces my ear, stings my nose, makes my eyes burn.

I wanted to hear a story.

Just one. Hoping for a tradition.
You smiled and touched my cheek,
An indulgent nod your answer.
Stories of small homes becoming havens
And hurt being washed away by the purity of love.
I read and read and read.
Devouring the fantasy so fast that I couldn’t see where my feet were running.

My favorite stories had a ******
With a strong will,
a loud mouth,
and unconditional love behind her.

You told me to be my own ******
But stopped me when I started braving
The World.
You told me to be strong
But talked me down when I stood up to you.
You told me to believe in myself
But
Every time
I try to succeed
You
Always
Hold me back.

Alone,
dining is a form of liberation.
I welcome the waiter
with the picket fence smile. Gallant questions
no match for the pleasantness of his own voice.
My hands fold,
defeated,
over the complacent menu.
He peers expectantly over my shoulder,
but it’s your eyes reflected in my glass-
Familiar feigned interest and the impatient
twitch of your lips. I choke
down the battered façade of chivalry.
I tip you
off that your favors are futile. Your confidence
more mediocre than any meal I’ve tasted.
I dab at the corners of my mouth, politely
hiding my distaste. Service is no more
generosity than options are freedom. I slide
my chair back
and walk out-
Alone.

Shouts from the kitchen-
Your name crashes and engulfs you in its wake-
Your heart struggles to get farther away from your ears.

There’s always safety in the familiar-
You are your own stability.
The reflection of your face stops you short
And your hand reaches to feel the changes.
The anchor that was holding you here,
Holding you home,
It’s gone. Where will you drift now?

The clock with the chimes melts down the wall,
Its sound muted by your socked feet.
All that’s left is gentle
Pattering throughout that place,
That one that you called home.

If you’re not often still, then your mind forgets its chaos.
But now you sit with neatly crossed legs,
Eyes closed, and listen.
As your name fades and fumbles over itself,
You recall that little girl in the oversized heels.

I need you to make it through today.
Perk me up; don’t let me
Down
Hard
Again. I want to be full
Of your warmth. Sweet scent. Texture.
Every time.
Every time, thoughts percolate
Until they’re bubbling with rationale.
It’s a good idea. I need it.
Wrap my hands around you
And become intoxicated as I bring you to my lips.
Racing heart! Breathless! Stomach turns! Alive!
Anxious-
You drive me mad.
Bitter dregs of your company not worth
The dark ring left
On my once white napkin.
Empty sugar packet on the table,
But nothing could’ve helped.
Appetite gone, routine broken, my mind
Wide awake.

We painted pictures of perfection and piety
when we were young.
We desired to show the world what we could create
together.
We were novices;
using rulers to draw straight-edged lines
across the bad and lead each other to the good.

That path made us breathe
Easy.
We could see each other plainly.
Each dipped in our solid colors- you were an adventurous red
and I,  a warm orange
Light reflected off of you and back to me;
we basked in the company.

Then life started happening to us separately,
instead of in tandem,
and our paint began to chip.
We saw the timeworn canvas, stretched and weathered.
With squinted eyes and tilted heads
we strained to see the masterpiece.

It wasn’t until we grew and knew the spectrum of our feelings
that we could paint each other in different lights.
You picked up a brush and made my eyes wider,
my skin more colorful,
gave my smile staying power.
I held up a mirror and you saw your reflection lined in gold
and how simply the paint blended with your features.

We saw what we were, but more importantly what we could be.
We pieced together a new portrait.
Fresh, vibrant colors swept across that same worn canvas.
There was nothing else for them to do
but blend with what was already there.

As we touched up the lines that held our smiles
and spackled the fissures in our perspective,
we learned about the patience of authentic art
and, with a discerning eye, saw value in our efforts.
We learned to be artists-
Our colors not competing;
We share a single shade.