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.