she suddenly loses all control of herself.
her fingers are twitching and dropping razors
her jaw is clenched and her head is rattling
  with the secrets of her blood
  shhh,
     don't spill the (blood) beans

her eyes are unfocused and everything around her
  looks fifty feet away and yet
  inexplicably detailed
she can smell his shampoo
  on her fingers and
she can smell the scent of almonds
  on her forearms

her feet won't stop tapping the beat
  of a song she can't remember
her hair is tangling itself in her
  fists, bruised from contact with her hipbone
she wants to be
  destroyed
     by hands that she (trusts) loves

yesterday i was really proud of myself.
no swollen eyes,
no bruises,
no midnight walks across that frozen bridge.
for thirty two days i was truly okay

yesterday i was proud.
today i feel the pit in my stomach
that screams and tears and growls
all because i'm hungry,
all because i'm empty,
all because i'm wishing on stars
that are hidden behind clouds.
today i feel alone

yesterday i was proud of who i was.
tomorrow i'll be sickened by my face,
i'll be sickened by the splotches and scars
decorating my plain pale skin,
i'll be sickened by the weight
that i can't seem to lose,
no matter how little i eat
or how much i sweat.
tomorrow i'll be sick indeed

yesterday i was proud of
my strength,
my courage,
my smile,
my childish eyes and my chapped lips.
for a month's time i was proud.
yesterday i didn't remember who i was,
but my dreams have returned
and orion's sun bleached hair
and freckled cheeks
only remind me of what used to make me laugh,
of what will never make me smile again.

from now on, every today
will be so different from yesterday.

i want to cut off my hair.
if you knew me better, you'd know this is
something i would never truly want.

i want to tell her to stop living with
her head perched over the toilet
and the shower running-
she doesn't want me to hear her insides coming out.

i want to create murals
in between the creases of my fingers
with the absence of paranoia,
with the absence of fear that mom will cry
or search me every time i'm home.

i want to run away.

i want to tell my dearest friends
that i wish i could drop twenty
disgusting, sweaty, hideous pounds
from my already average figure-
i can't even tell them about what happened
with him.

i want to hug my dad.
i want to hug my dad without him worrying
that his little pumpkin girl has issues,
or that he didn't try hard enough,
or that he wasn't there to stop me from
letting myself become this.

i want to be less of a disappointment
to those i care about.

i want to cut off my hair.

and that strong arm around my shoulders is all too familiar.

i was with you again last night, and i wonder if you even know about it.  you asked me how i've been, you smiled a little bit, even though i'm sure it hurts to see me after months of not even speaking.

do you know that we were together last night?  are you dreaming the same things as I am?  those cement stairs up to your room were no different, and my backpack was heavy with books and cans of diet coke.

almost every night we have these secret meetings that sometimes even i don't know about.  we make small talk, ask all the required 'how've you been's and 'how's the family's and, of course, the 'are you happy now's.  while i can't recall your responses or how we spent the rest of the night, i can perfectly hear your laugh and feel your hand on the nape of my neck.

when i wake up, i feel bad that i left you alone in the dream.  but then again, maybe you were the one who woke up.  maybe all those times i wake in the middle of the night are just times when you had to leave the dream to roll over in bed, or your dog scratched on your door.

maybe you don't even dream about me.  maybe i'm uncovering these memories as i sleep and can't help but replay them over and over again.  

either way, i hope you dream a good one tonight, kid.

she didn't actually want to leave,
but there's a point where the decision has to be made:
is it more worth it to
   try harder or
   let go?
and in her moment of clouded confidence
she made a choice.

and she let him go.

it's one of the scariest feelings-
   realizing you're still okay with dying

and it's like no matter what you do
or what you say or what you think
all you can focus on is
   how your throat is closing
   how your hands are shaking
   how your eyes burn from the eyeliner bleeding and
   how your reflection is getting more and more hideous

and more bitter, too.

and even when you think you have it all figured out,
   you'll still get pulled down on to that couch
   and you'll still lay there in the morning, unable to get up
   and you'll still do mindless tasks until it's time to get back in bed.

tired isn't just what you feel,
   it's what you are.

and you'll never know the energy it takes
   to smile and laugh

and truly mean it.

the little sparrow watched as the nest was ripped apart.  twigs were tossed,
berries crushed, and his younger brother was clawed at until he no longer
moved.  it was a horrible scene, and the little sparrow was trembling, hiding
behind the trunk of the great tree.  he cried out, screaming for help.  his
mother had been gone for four days.  she never left them alone for that long.

the sky was dimming, the clouds swarming around the rising moon.  the little
sparrow's voice was weakening.  he had been crying for hours and he was all
alone.  a crackling of sticks and crunchy leaves below caught the little
sparrow's attention.  a mud-red fox was tiptoeing around the base of the tree,
his eyes trained on the little helpless sparrow.  the baby bird once again
started up his crying.

as the fox was trying to find a way to get up to the higher branch that the
little sparrow sat on, a dark fluttering of feathers crashed down on top of
him.  a large crow was pecking and scratching at the fox, who was howling
in pain.  the fox managed to get a claw into the crow's wing, and blood seeped
from the velvet-tipped feathers.  the crow only grew fiercer, and chased the
fox away from the tree and into the forest.

the little sparrow cried quietly, frightened and unable to steady himself on
his branch.  the poor baby fell from the branch onto a soft bed of leaves on
the ground below.  the little sparrow tried to get up, but was much too
frantic to stand.  the crow hopped toward the sparrow, who attempted to hide
in the crispy leaves.  the crow said nothing, he did not make any movements.  
he only gazed at the little sparrow with his large, black eyes.  the little
sparrow fainted from fear.

the nest was rebuilt when the little sparrow woke up.  there were berries in
the corner and plenty of feathers and tufts of fur to keep him warm.  the
little sparrow looked around, trying to find his mother.  she had been gone
for five days, and she never left him alone for that long.  

in the haze of morning light, the little sparrow saw the large crow, standing
on a fence post, staring out over the field.  the little sparrow called to
him, but the crow pretended not to notice.  a drop of blood fell from his wing
and the crow spoke. "i am no mother, but i will keep you safe, little sparrow.  
you have been left all alone and you are but a child.  do not fear the night
nor the creatures that hunt, for i will be here with you."

i remember small bits about him.  maybe less about him, and more about
the things that had to do with him.  i remember the look of his piano: glossy,
always shining and clean, the pedals made a haunting squeal every few stanzas.
i remember that his shirt fit to his arms very well, showing off the fact
that he was in shape.  the veins and tendons in his arms were always visible,
lifting and writhing under his usually tan skin.  i can remember how his
shadow danced and swung against the wall as he played songs that his mother
had taught him when he was young and new to the music world.  he sometimes
burst out laughing in the middle of a song, remembering something funny that
had been said earlier that day.  i think that's what i miss most about him- he
was never on time for anything.

i remember small bits about him, but i can't recall what he smelled like, or
how his forehead creased when he was worried.  i can't remember what his face
looked like.  i can't even summon up the memory of how his lips tasted on my
tongue.


--

the trees were reaching up, doing gymnastics across the sky on the morning
that he left town.  he was wearing his old winter coat and ratty old hat,
pulled down tight to cover his ears.  the ground was a mess of never-raked
leaves.  i was a mess of never-wiped tears.  the sky was white, and i thought
to myself, 'i wonder when it'll start snowing...'  

he held onto my waist one last time, and placed his lips to my neck.  he
inhaled and i heard his breath catch in his throat.  he looked up at me one
last time and cleared his throat.  "I should go, Anne."  he turned then, and
started walking down the dirt path away from our house, our home.  the snow
began to fall, and as he faded into nothingness i swore i'd never forget him.

--

on the night of my twenty third birthday there was a full moon.  my friends
and i thought it would be fun to have a fire and see which of us could count
the most stars.  the yard was surrounded by tall oaks, which were home to
hundreds of birds.  when i was young we hung dozens of birdhouses i had
painted up in the branches.  some mornings i like to lay out in the grass and
listen to the birds wake up and sing.  tonight the birds stayed up, as if they
wanted to celebrate my birthday with us.  they flew from tree to tree,
darkening the sky along with the smoke from the bonfire.  

the full moon brings out the crazy in animals.  i remember when he was still
here and we would run around down by the creek in the moonlight.  but the
birds were wild.  we ended up putting out the fire and going inside, afraid
they would dive down and attack us.  i've never seen them that riled up.

--

i remember the night he showed up quite well.  i may not remember how the
tears ran down his cheeks, or how his breath was catching on every syllable he
spat out, but i remember that night well.  the moon was thin, and i was
sitting at the kitchen counter, reading a book i recently purchased.  i heard
him knock- a truly hollow sound.  when i opened the screen door i saw him
sitting on the step, holding his head in his hands and his hair in his fists.  
his veins were still visible, and his shoulders were strong.  he had grown out
his hair and it was strewn every which way.  i suspect he thought i could help
him.  i knew i couldn't.

he stayed over that night.  i walked him to my bed and tucked him in.  he
brought the blankets up to his face and he inhaled deeply.  he smiled beneath
the covers, i suspect.  i read him some of the book that he interrupted when
he arrived.  he fell asleep soon after and i left the room, headed for the
couch in the living room.  i wish i would've stayed in bed with him.  i might
have remembered more than this if i had.

--

i awoke to the sound of the old piano.  i thought i was dreaming when i heard
his voice diving and tiptoeing with the notes he plucked and played.  i padded
into the room, where we first fell in love all those years ago.  he was
rocking on the bench, tears dropping to his lap from wet cheeks.  there was a
note on top of the piano, addressed to me.  it began with 'I would like to
thank you, Anne...' and ended with 'but we both know I won't be staying.'  

he stood and turned to me, and just like last time, he placed his lips to my
neck and inhaled my scent.  "I've missed this piano."  i wrapped my arms
around him, and murmured in his ear, "and the piano's missed you, but we both
know you won't be staying."  his eyes met mine, and i smiled as i wiped away a
stray tear from his chin.  he nodded, and gave me one last hug before he
walked down the driveway for the last time.