When you look at yourself,
Your psychedelic bruises,
Your prosperous veins,
Your ever-increasing freckles,
The stretch marks on your hips,
Your ever-so-slight collarbones,
Your deep blue eyes,
And you say
"Why can't I be lovely?"

Understand that when I look at you,
I see the endless galaxies,
The roads yet to be travelled,
The marvellous constellations,
I see the lines of Jupiter,
The glorious mountains,
I see the wondrous ocean.
So when I say
"Darling you already are"
Know that when I look at you,
I see my world.

I want to softly whisper
incomplete poems
on your collar bones
that don't rhyme with anything
but your heavy breathing.

I want to bury my face
in the curves of your neck
because you smell like the winter clouds
and I've been gazing at the sky
since you left.

rub your collarbones over mine and leave on me the smell of your skin so I can finally have something to wake up to

you can have all of me

When the dust has settled in your collarbones and the word alone reveberates through you...
What will become of you ?

there's a lot of holes in my life
for example

my waist takes as little space as possible;
a curve is formed in each side
in order to be fitted by
somebody's hands

and i would like them to be your hands

between every bone of my spine
there's a little pause pretending to shape
a path long enough to be toured by
somebody's fingers

and i would like them to be your fingers

when i stretch my neck i find
angles in my collarbones
a piece of architecture to be traced by
somebody's mouth

and i would like it to be your mouth

but your hands hold the curves of other waist
and your fingers wander other road
and your mouth traces the lines of other architecture

and i have all of these holes

and there's a hole in my bed
and i would like to have two

she wanted to be skinny.

     she wanted to ignore the skin on her body
     until it hung loosely off her skeleton
     like a wrinkled shirt on a hanger
     that needed ironing.

she wanted to be a stick
so that she could fit through the
spaces in the dark of trees
and understand how they fed off of
themselves.

     she wanted to know what it was like
     to have knives instead of collarbones,
     carving off the little chunks of fat,
     and throwing them to the side, letting the
     festering rats devour the residue of
     fourteen years of life.

she wanted to have hips that served as
mountains, looking like the alps,
with climbers covered in furs throwing hooks
over the niches in her body.

     she wanted a ribcage that would hold
     even the mightiest bird, without letting
     a single feather breach her defenses,
     never letting a ferocious caw escape her,

because she wanted to be thin.