It didn't mean anything.
Not when he cupped my cheek,
Stroking his thumb over
The sharp curves of my jaw;
Not when he tucked my head
Into the slant of his shoulder,
And held me—for one, two, three
Seconds too long.
It didn't mean anything when he
Pulled me close,
And I went with him,
Like an echo,
Shadowing the reverberations of sound.

It meant nothing.
Nothing at all.
Not that I expected it to from the start.

She sang for the birds,
dancing like flaxen wind,
sunshine-bright and gently
waning.

she twirled like golden leaves
and laughed like stilled ripples of water--
the hairpin curve of her mouth
tilted up in the parody of a smile.

And in the depths of night,
you fell softly in love
with the sound of her silence,
echoing like the wilting feathers
of a songbird
who can sing no more.

Sometimes, I hate
That I love him.

He is maddening.
His eyes remind me
Of caramel.
But that’s not the point.
He’s maddeningly
Arrogant.
And suave.
He doesn’t speak to me.
Just stands
And smirks
And stares.

He’s profoundly…
Irritating.
Yes.  That’s it;
Irritating.

His eyes remind me
Of caramel.

He is beautiful,
wrapped
in alabaster skin—
a satin present
enfolded
in white,
and lined
with black;
sooty lashes
brush
against my fingertips,
papery skin
pressed flat
against my palms,
like a cut out doll.
His breath wreaths
the air,
suffocating my lungs,
and I can’t take it
anymore,
but I don’t step away.
He is beautiful,
wrapped
in alabaster skin,
a perfect gift
that I have stained
with my impurity.

The first time I saw them,
She was drunk off of apple *****,
Giggling hysterically in my face.
Her breath smelled like candied puke.

“They’re stylish.”  She laughed
When I pointed them out.
“They’re the bling I can’t afford to buy.”

“Why?”  I asked, running a finger
Over the ridges of skin.
“Because I’m broke, silly.”
She tittered, rocking back and forth.

I bit my lip, wondering about the
Friendship bracelet I’d given her
A year ago.
“Didn’t Nate give you a necklace for
Your birthday?” I whispered.  
She made a face.
“I don’t want to die, Sam.”

I blinked in confusion.
“Why would you die?” I said.
She threw up on my sofa.
I didn’t bother asking again.

You will meet a boy,
Who will make you a promise.
He will hold you while you cry,
And kiss you in the rain.
He will stroke your hair,
And tug on your belt loop,
And smile every time you laugh.
He will give you
Everything
In exchange for
One
Little
Thing.
And you will say yes.
And then he will take
Your breath away,
And your heart right with it.

I write on the tops of wooden desks,
press the tip of my pen deep into the wood
and scribble out inane hearts and Lee '15 and
dumb poetry that curls over the edges of the desk
on uneven lines like a disaster waiting to happen.

I scrawl words and designs
on the crimped edges of a TAZO tea packet,
crumpled in my pocket,
and rip the paper apart slowly,
watching the lines of pencil split and diverge
and never meet again.

I ink my fingers with expo and sharpie,
let the tips shine oily black in the light
then quickly press them
onto crisp printer paper, peel my fingers
off and count the dips of my identity
in the grooves of white and black.

I smear the side of my hand with black,
wipe charcoal on my forehead
as I sweat in dimly lit studios,
hunched over my stool and eyeing the x-acto knife
from where it lies on top of a box of glue sticks.
Beside me is a cup of black TAZO tea,
that has steeped for over 4 hours and is already
cold.

When I leave, it is past midnight,
but the sky is not dark yet because
even with only the light of the stars,
I can see sharpie on the flesh of my thumb,
and charcoal dust fills the crescents of my nails
and someone has probably already
crossed out my name on that desk in room 216
that I sit at for English,
and in my pocket there are 2 more packets of tea
that I need to drink because

it has been four hours,
and my tea is already cold.

There is darkness,
like singed angel's wings,
shadowing the hollows of the night,
curling along the moon's lips
like the jutting cheekbones
of a starveling child, crisscrossed,
netted around blackened stars,
caught between
the lowered black lashes
of curving gutters,
slick and glassy with ***** water.

From a distance, light travels slowly.
We see the gleam of stars,
like a handful of scattered shards,
and do not know that they have gone out-
have been out-
and are cold black lumps
floating in space.
We only find out later,
years after the light has faded.

By then, it's too late.

woman you are sensuous
woman you are lovely,
you are earth-mother,
like water-slickened clay
beneath my hands
give way to me, yes,
be my chalice,
be my sheathe,
let me fill you up
let me make you whole--
look at my fingerprints
on your hips,
on your thighs,
see how good you are
for me, yes,
so good, babe, so good--
don't you like it, yes,
don't you want it, yes,
woman you are sensuous
woman you are lovely.

Sometimes, I pretend
That I’m perfection.

I know a lot [little]
About what perfection is,
Because I know [think]
That I [may never] have
Seen it before,
But I think [pretend]
That when [if] I see it,
I’ll know.

[Maybe.]