i woke up this morning
to an “I LOVE YOU”
text in all caps
sent at 2:29am

no “for...” or
“when...” or
“because...”

unwarranted
but unequivocal

in my foggy morning headspace i
searched through the events of yesterday
looking for things i might have done that you’re thanking me for—
i didn’t hold you while you cried or
feel your burning forehead or
fold your laundry—
there must be something i did recently
to prompt your adamant and abrupt declaration or
confession

an immediate reason
for loving me
because surely there must be
a reason or

you must have texted the wrong number
and this was meant for someone else
someone more
deserving
someone who does not have to work to warrant love—
especially the kind
that explodes like a firework out of the soul at 2:29 in the morning or

maybe you were drunk
you must have been
you love everyone when you’re wasted
i hope you were because

i can’t take your love if it isn’t conditional
that would mean that i
well that i’m good enough
and that everything i’ve suffered to
paint worth onto my teeth and tongue
never worked or ever meant anything

my diet as a young, unsuspecting girl consisted mainly
of the saccharin that crystallized in between
the glowing, smiling teeth of Disney princesses,
and the artificial-like aftertaste that
coated the walls of my mouth,
enchanting me with fantasies of formulaic love –

level-headed, perfunctory love that
feels like knowing the color of
your dress complements some manicured uniform
waiting offscreen until the waltz your costumes are programmed
to perform, indifferent
(as you are)
to the bodies
that fill them.

so I painted myself monochromatic,
spending my days planning, calculating,
and trusting, wondering
why it seemed that other girls never got too hungry,
(living as they did only on sugar highs),
or bored of the one color they had chosen to become, to wait inside,
but starving was easier than searching for
(or, god forbid, finding)
what I knew I was missing ––

"you are a passionate person,"
he says to me,
truth spilling through my rotting teeth into my shriveled belly,
all rich and creamy-like, as if
he doesn't know what the inside of my mouth
should taste like, as if
his mouth doesn't know
how hungry I am ––

I know
that passionate people
spend their days feasting.
they lie underneath black starry skies
and spoon their own moonlight-infused tears into
each other's mouths, and chew crunchy, fizzling morsels of poetry
along with fistfuls of shadow-drenched notebook paper, and
guzzle violet-tinged philosophy and insomnia until sunrise, but

still, unfortunately, love is what sustains us.

passionate people
are no better at surviving than Disney princesses, but
their bellies are too big and their palates too sophisticated
for light, sugary, level-headed love ––

so, in our wild, potent love, we cram ourselves with
these decadent and deliciously painful things,
and when time and distance and gravity make us still
ache with hunger, we swallow fire the colors of our lovers' eyes and
we burn like kaleidoscopic beacons,
smiling.

someone took a pair of scissors to the sky today,
the way the light burst through a sliced-open seam in the storm clouds,
the city across the lake still in a fog and the water
in a tantrum

you are all chocolate curls and puppy dog eyes,
family fireplace warmth,
lips magnetized to my skin and transparent smiles,
and she's quiet in silver revelatory haze--

in this quantum-split universe I've been
living in the wrong halves, in the storms, and even I
would have rather been left for dead
again

but your palms make me angry that I ever
trained myself to swallow rain,
convinced I could make dresses out of fog--
I am angry that I wanted anything besides you,

and I love you,
the way you glow with fervent comfort,
dripping in sunlight

I didn't pay too much attention
to those helpless girls in movies
            sinking like molasses
            melting into pitiful puddles
at the feet
            of their men.
Those delicate elegant girls
who were swept off the sidewalks
            and carried home
            over a shoulder
dripping in diamonds and pearls
and wearing
            that plastered red-lipstick grin.

Then I went to Vegas and saw
            for myself
those girls on the street
            decorated
                        like you would decorate something
            as worthless
            as a Christmas tree
wearing nothing but a few sparse
            sequins and jewels
and huge blue wings
            on their backs made out of feathers.
Those girls whose naked pictures
            were posted on little cards with a price
and scattered on the pavement and sidewalks
for the viewing pleasure
            of the smokers, gamblers, and drunks
            passing by
like they were furniture
you could just use
            and throw away
            with the rest of your garbage.

Even then I didn't pay too much attention
until I went back to my hotel
            for a shower
There were mirrors on every wall
            reflecting every curve and crevice
                        of my pale scrawny figure
but I didn't see my own body
I stared horrified at the mirror
and saw
            a helpless puddle of molasses
            eye-candy dripping in jewels and covered in lipstick
            a naked angel with feathered wings
            and my picture on
                        a ***** little card
                                    occasionally glanced at
                                    or swiped up and grinned at
                                    and trampled by busy feet
                        *on the streets
of Las Vegas.

All this war and yet, there is nothing I would rather be.

I have grown to appreciate,
            as a nonpartisan–
            a silent sommelier–
the subtle earthy notes of irony with which
my deflated ego scolds my hollow spine.

I know my own hypocrisy, my instability, my naivete.

I have been raised in the midst of myself–
I carved and nailed these philosophies together to make trellises
around which my elastic grapevine limbs have learned
to wrap and coil and hoist themselves toward the sun.

I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.

There are distortions in these wooden lattices,
and there are seasons when the grapes grow sour
or the vines do not flower
at all,
but the crop is resilient and the wood does not break,
and there is enough sunshine here
in the summertime to sustain
and to yield something complexly beautiful because it has been weak,
and it has known the cold.

I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.

There are plots of land far more fertile than this one,
foundational structures far sturdier and more symmetrical,
grapes far sweeter and more robust of flavor,
but there is no wine I would rather have flood my veins;
there is nothing I would rather be.

girl
with sun-kissed cheekbones
and golden-red hair
fingertips brushing daisies
in the warm summer air

girl
with freckles like stars
tears like silver prayers
don't stray too far
in the warm summer air

the sun's hugs feels like home
the daisies like angel hair
but when the sun sleeps
you can't stay
in the warm summer air

you've fled too far
in the warm summer air
shadows stain
your golden-red hair
raging hot stars
outshine your freckles
and I cannot answer
your helpless silver prayers

the night swallowed
your daisies without care
ashes cover
your golden-red hair
but promise me
you'll learn
to see through despair
to keep reaching
to keep dreaming
of your

warm
summer air

she finds that time is not linear
in the gospel-like gold and amber
that glaze the green poplar leaves
in her suburban summer evenings

what is she left to be?
she with a warrior's heart
but with legs in tired atrophy

at dusk the water ripples with silver-toned echoes
whispering mythical adventures and heroes
and the words churn and boil in her mythical blood
"I would rather be ashes than dust!"

what is she left to be?
she with a warrior's heart
but with legs in tired atrophy

every night still she stargazes through her ceiling
a coward's tears on her cheeks slowly peeling
courage like corn husks from her ancient soul
leaving her core shivering in the dust and dusty cold

what is she left to be?
she with a warrior's heart
freezes
with legs in tired atrophy

I liked the way you and
your crisscrossed legs sat on
my middle-school-ignorant
navy-blue and daisy-patterned comforter,
watching,
hearing,

the way your fingers crept
towards the neck of my ukulele
while the magnetized look in your eyes drew mine and
my own fingers fell
slack in divine-driven intrigue,

the way you and
your eyes
full of quiet study and wisdom, like
worship, like
your respect of this instrument as not wood but as
hundreds of years of polished amber-tinted history
has earned you ownership, and it
does.

you and
your fingers then
spun aching minor chords, like
worship, like
somehow, in the sparkling incensed-violet melody you
spilled all over
me in my righteous nihilism

you and
your body became an
offering, and
the wood

burned my fingertips when you
handed it back to me, ashamed and awe-stricken, like
worship, like
your life is an offering, and even

when I found the notes you played
(on this instrument that is not mine)
200 days and 200 nights after I knew you and
your legs sitting on my bed and
your multidimensional fingers,
worshipping,

no matter what I tell myself, I
am not a believer in beyond, and
pretending to pray just reeks of
my own mortality.