Before a big party,
I would show my mother my outfits, for her approval.
"**** your stomach in," she'd say.
I'd inhale deeply and reduce the space I took up.
"Beautiful." She'd beam at me.
Eight years later, I look in the mirror.
"**** your stomach in," I tell myself.
"Beautiful."

Sometimes, through no fault of your own, you will end up ******.
You'll get blood on your dress, blood on your shoes
blood in your hair, blood on the walls,
speckled on your lips and clinging to your eyelashes
copper in your mouth, rust under your fingernails
four perfect spatters below you
palms stained, bringing out your handprints
as if to identify that it is indeed you, covered in blood.

So you'll decide to restore yourself
and you'll resolve to wash it all away.
And as you scrub away your shame,
you'll look in the mirror
to see a woman with pursed lips
jewels heavy around her neck
brow dark and furrowed, concentrating
because she, too, is covered in blood.

You will wash your hands with her
and try not to look so pale
because the water is orange and your fingertips are white.
You will turn away from the woman with raw hands
and your palms will smell like lemons
and your eyes will be bright.
Your lips will be crimson.
You'll adjust your necklace as you leave.

Picture an emergency room, she told me,
a smattering of students surrounding us.
There are patients that are having heart attacks.
And then there’s one with the flu.
The flu can get worse, I thought, alone.
But I nodded and she continued.
So I wandered through the halls for forty years
and eventually found my divine interpretations
bugs in my skin fluttered brittle fingers
I held the verses close to my chest
(and the whole mountain shuddered)
Salvation tastes dry

I notice the tiny pulse of frustration in the back of his neck
I notice the way that he sighs and slumps over
I notice how his elbows splay out so his face bobs lightly over his desk
A buoy dancing over a wave
I notice the way he glances at his friends before he answers
I notice the way he shapes his mouth into a grin before he speaks
I notice how his eyes squint a little when he laughs
I notice how they dull when he doesn’t want to listen
I notice how his shoulders hunch when refuses to hear
I notice the boredom in the lines of his back as he considers
I notice the way his leg jiggles as he bounces his foot lightly
The ever-present dichotomy of professionalism fighting immaturity
Of a thirst to learn, fighting against ignorance, justice calling
I notice this inner battle of boyish nonchalance and masculine defensiveness
I notice how his eyes dart lightly over his chosen comrades before he writes again
I notice the way he presses his forehead into his hand
As though he could pull ideas out
And read his thoughts printed back on his palm
I notice the consistent rubbing against his face with his fingers
Phalanges to stimulate the thought process
I notice the hesitation before his pen scratches the page
Piercing the paper with words he must call his own
I notice the claim of responsibility and the toll it takes on his physique
I notice the fatigue of struggling to create
To feel, to create, to feel, to feel
I notice, throughout all the time I’ve been noticing him
He has not noticed me once

I realize that they look awful
my fingers and thumbs my fingers and thumbs
nine and a half or ten all the same
(sun moon stars rain)
****** and angry they stare up at me
and I view their destruction of my own volition
I didn't used to do this
but then they left and left and left and now I pick and pick and pick
my mom prays the rosary when she feels like this
ten strands then one verse ten strands then one verse
I pray with my fingers and offer it up and offer it all
a private ****** sacrifice, privy to me
I didn't used to do this but even that's not true,
I didn't do this until I'd met you.
I pray with my fingers and offer it all,
and savor the blood and the feel of the fall.

i cannot tell
if what falls from the sky and
                           hits
my eyelashes
are snowflakes
or flower petals

I painted my nails pink yesterday.
I thought the color would be nice.
I was careful and meticulous and I tried very hard.
It looked so strange on my fingers
up against my skin;
my hands looked darker
and the ripped ****** grooves surrounding looked
all the more open and sore.
It was unsettling.
That was yesterday.
Today, my pink nail polish is gone.
My thumb bears the smallest chip.
I want to pry it off but
I want to remember what happens when
I think to myself that some color would be nice.

I don’t like crowds.
I don’t like the buzz that comes with them.
I have trouble with the sheer energy of the people surrounding me
an energy
that I
just
can’t
match
Crowds are hard to leave, too
all the screaming
the singing
the moving
the hum of life
a life
that I
can’t
have
(andstaringiswrongbutIcan’thelpitlookatmelookatmeI’m­lookingatyou)
I am one of many
I don’t like the buzz
and until I do
until I
             capture
that energy that life that stares
and trap it like a butterfly in my hands
I never will like crowds
or the hysteria around me
the hysteria
that I

I had a dream the other night
that I held my heart in your hands.
I stared down at in grotesque fascination
watching its pumps and shudders.
The pleasure I felt was never so great
in savagely squeezing
and feeling the blood
trickle down my hands
hearing the far-off scream in the distance,
a sweet sound of agony
as I imagined your gasps and splutters,
as I wrung out your heart for
everything you had ever done
and threw it into the dirt,
watched it shrivel into itself,
before spitting in the general direction
and walking away to find
your body, cold and lifeless, pale,
your chest still ****** from
where I shoved my hand through.
I watched the life dwindle out of your eyes
as I began to laugh,
laugh
as God help me I laughed,
with excitement and cry with anticipation, waking,
knowing someday I’ll hold your heart in my hand,
and stare at it, and squeeze.

Could you? Maybe? Would you? Leave me. Slam, solo, crash, whimper. Dimples. Scream, shine, gleam, whine. Squeak, mumble, sweat, drip. Drop. Fall. Slam. Crush. Not so hard. I once had what was hard. Does it? Scream. Swirling, swirling colors, trapped, staccato, rapid, *****, roar, right, music, scream. Whoosh. Collapse. Ice. White. Scarce. Tangle of sounds. Scream. Louder! Again. There now. Aren’t you happy?

A cold read should not be that hard,
I think to myself for the umpteenth time.
All you have to do is read the words.
I can't comprehend the difficulty.
But, I remind myself, they’re not all actors.
They don’t read text like you do.
Still, I argue, all in my mind,
They’ve been reading for as long as you have.
The voice will pause as they think this over.
Yet, it tells me finally, gently but firmly,
You get the better English grades,
It just comes more naturally to you.
“That’s true,” I murmur, mistakenly out loud,
But what makes me so different?
Maybe, whispers my mind,
You’re not as good as you think you are.
I dismiss the thought immediately.
No really, it persists, you’re not as good –
You’re never as good as you think you are.
Silence.
I guess you’re right, the part of me mumbles
The one so frustrated before,
While the other half smiles in satisfaction.
But even so, I interject –
(I’m losing track of who is who
they both echo so clearly and
they sound so alike)
I know my words flow better than they do.
The voice concedes to that.
For all your mistakes you’ll never fix,
Your words flow better than theirs.
A cold read isn’t that difficult, I mumble, just in my mind.
My thoughts answer: Yours flow better than theirs.

make me
a person
that you would want to be
show me your weakness
let me hold it in my hand
don’t ask me why I want it
I won’t hold it for too long
all I want is one small moment
let me hold
it
let
me
hold
your
being
in
my
                   hand