115.

I know I promised you
that I would not write instead of speaking
but my tongue is too rough and dry
to smooth your skin
the way my fingers can

so all I can do
is draw the curves of your name
on notebook paper

I know that I should
let your eyes bathe me in clean water
instead of sidling out of your line of vision
but you are too honest, and I am
not accustomed to this

what matters most
is that I am saving my pennies
to take a trip to the center of you

I promise
I will hold what I find there
with gentle hands

Strange Sickness

it must have been only some misfiring synapse
some faulty wiring, disconnected fuses in my brain
that caused this sadness to stick like sour honey to my bones

they tell me it can be treated but not cured
so I take sick days like anyone else, swallow pills to soothe the pain
and hope that the sunlight will not be too harsh tomorrow
because my eyes are salt-stained and red
and dusk is about the only time I can see straight
so I sit on my back porch at 7 PM and take gulps of evening air
fingers crossed to the point of breaking, hoping that tonight will be the night
that something will crack open in me
and I will become limber and free again

and memories of old loves feel like pinpricks on cold wrists
recalling the nights that I shared my sadness with the wrong people
or tried to cover it with someone else's lips
laughing a little too hard or drinking a little too much wine
trying on happiness like an ill-fitting dress and convincing myself
that if I just keep wearing it, maybe
it will stop feeling so tight and uncomfortable
but the ice spreads in my lungs even still
and I find myself locking bathroom doors even when lovers are over
because the pauses between pieces of conversation last too long
and the chances of my smile slipping are too great
and I cannot risk it

it is a strange sickness, this slow descent
that leaves the sky more gray than glowing
some nights, I am a moth with oiled wings inside a jam jar
no holes poked into the lid
and other nights I am cave-deep in darkness
or still-born quiet
and I rub coconut oil on my neck and in my hair
in some small attempt to mask my own scent
which is something like old pine needles drying in summer

I am trying to take cover from this storm
folding deeper into myself as the rain beats down inside my skin
and there is not much I can find by way of shelter
so I am beginning to think that I am inescapable
and that is what scares me most

But I Won't

I could love you if I let myself -
if the creases in your hands did not look like ravines I'd fall into
if you did not get my wheels spinning so fast that my feet lose traction
and when I fall, my face is too slathered in blood
to see you clearly

I could love you if I let myself
love myself (a little)
so that the sand of me does not fall through your fingers so easily
so that I am enough to hold onto, to pull toward you
but I am the fog and you are the trees
and we surround each other without touching
and sometimes that is all I am capable of

maybe I could love you if I let go of my own fists
but the air in my lungs is cold, and breathing on my hands
only helps the ice crystals to grow, I swear
I could love you if I just
opened my heart up a little, but I tend to open my legs instead
and the only thing I have to show for that
is a list of strangers' names and a stomach ache

but I could love you if I let myself
see past myself
and trust that you might be trustworthy
or at least, a little less dangerous than what I am used to
because I have been in love that feels like getting drunk on poison
and asking for more
and it has left scars in my veins from the nights that I thought
I had to abandon myself instead of him

but I promise, I could love you if I let myself
stop writing poems about the things that have ripped me open
if I started to use my own words to stitch myself up instead
I could love you if I let myself
repair myself
instead of replicating toxic patterns and repeating myself again
instead of beating my head against the brick walls I've built
instead of hoping for new results while I am still
listening to old tapes and
playing old games and
drinking old poison and staying fog-thin
and letting the blood on my face dry to a paste
and keeping my fists curled
and pushing away when I'm pulled
I'm so sorry

I promise
I could love you
if I let myself love anything at all, really

114.

we dreamed and we built and we blazed ember-bright
we roamed and we drank and we twined
and we loved but you lied

and I broke too soon
but I balanced and breathed
I pulled and I asked and I tried
and I tried and I tried

and I loved but you lied

so you cradled and crooned
and you brushed my hair as it grew
you wanted me the best way you could
and you gathered me up when I fell
and you loved but you lied

so we shook and we wept
and we splintered and cracked
we held our own hands and I cried
and we loved but you lied

I burned and I twisted and broke
and you rolled your eyes as I folded in two
and we wanted and wished
and we swept ourselves out to sea
and we loved
and you loved
and I loved
and I loved
and I loved

but you lied.

An Ode to Alcohol (And Other Tragedies)

this will not be pretty.
I am hating my hands as they write,
and all I can see is the night
that I was left bleeding from my eyes
while everyone else was still at the party.

they tell me I am supposed to stop drinking.

but who the hell wants to stay sober when it means 
remembering what made the space between 
your legs hurt so badly when you woke up this morning?
who wants to see clearly when I could just
swallow a few mouthfuls of poison
to blur my vision, make the bruises fade to smudges
at the edge of my peripherals and I might be too drunk to think
but at least my mind will be too dull to remember
what I am dying to forget

and trust me, whiskey works like an anesthetic: 
I glaze it over the wound like honey, and
sometimes I get lucky enough to stop wincing, at least
until I catch a glimpse in the mirror, and then
I see the circles under my eyes
and  the places they touched that still burn
and the bones that should have broken 
under their hands, and then
even the frostiest beer mug can't cool me down
so I switch to hard liquor

but the rum gets me blushing, and
my insides start to overheat as my thoughts
are forming iron knots
and my fingers twist into fists I should have thrown
in their faces as they held me down
but I didn't, no -- their hands were too tight
around mine, and I'm still here
belly somehow both hollow and sloshing with vodka
all because of the night that I bled from my eyes
while everyone else was still at the party

this is not a pretty feeling
this is sprinting barefoot on asphalt, holding
a half-empty bottle in my hands and sobbing
slamming my feet on pavement because I swear,
something sinister is trying to steal what is left in this body
though there isn't much left to take, really

see, they tell you not to walk down alleyways
alone at night, not to wear short skirts
or pucker your lips too much
they tell you about men with dark coats, but
they don't tell you about boys with nice eyes
and strong hands
and soft voices and wide smiles
and hungry mouths that swallow you whole
the kind with plenty more liquor at home to shove down your throat
and cameras in their back pockets.
and I am supposed to feel blessed
because I survived, because I am not dead, but
somehow I find myself hesitant to thank God
for putting me through hell without at least
having the decency to kill me first.

I'll just try to distract myself from the fact
that I still smell like fear. I'm told that predators
can sense it on your skin, so maybe that was my first mistake.
and maybe if I had been sober, I would have seen it coming.
hell, that should be reason enough
to stop drinking.

but sometimes
the only way to stop the visions
is to black out.

113.

it has been winter here for years

and I have only written the frost, lingering

over my aching fingertips

never warming my hands in my pockets

I have complained

about loneliness

and I have kept myself

alone

maybe because it seems safer

to hold myself at night

than risk a stranger’s hands leaving marks

but my own arms only reach so far

and there is still a small space on my back

that I cannot touch without help

so I am sure you have been wrapped in other women's sweaters
and I am sure you are wrapped in one now
and I doubt I could fit into your clothes, but
I would not mind a shot at it
stretching woven knits to slide my arm into the same sleeve as yours
our necks filling one collar, vertebrae kissing
I would not mind drinking from the same coffee mug
and breathing from your steamed lungs

and maybe you are just my excuse to write poetry
but the words fall freely from my hands, so
let's not overanalyze it

because I have been told that fingers are not defibrillators
that holding hands will not bring back what is dead in me
and sex can't save my life, but
it is so cold here
I am beginning to think the frost is slowing my heart
and I cannot help but wonder whether your touch is electric
and whether I will be nerve-damaged or revived underneath you
maybe your sheets are positively charged
and our sweat would conduct sparks through our lips
and maybe that might be enough
to keep me warm.

112.

we were a road trip planned by teenagers

who don't even know how to drive

all dreams, no map

no one knew us

like we did

(and no one could hurt us

 like we could)

you were a security blanket

that I carried a few years too many

and I still miss the way

you smelled like not growing up

our miseries bled into one

we indulged ourselves too much

and we were not strong enough 

to carry each other's burdens

or old enough to know not to try

I was a sickness you kept catching

I came back to you when I grew weary

and I made you weary, too

we were so young

and you have faded from my skin

but there is still a splinter of you

in my lungs that pulses

with your heart (I imagine)

some nights I am still sixteen

and you are still my sweetheart