Gaining Weight Isn't So Bad

when the edges of my skin blurred
I thought I was bloated
from the secrets you kept inside me
but now my curves are wide
enough to ski across, and I feel
broad like summer birds

I have sweated you out
and now the hips I hated so hard
are cultivating fruit trees and sloping
into arches under which
feral cats curl up
and honeycombs grow

my body has expanded
since you last saw it

and I can no longer
feel ashamed of that

Loaded Gun

clouds are forming and I am realizing
that I will always be a loaded gun
pointed toward your chest

it is nobody's fault but mine

and I am sorry
that I was only ever cactus skin
when you needed rainfall

A Mild But Unrequited Ache

dreary, dreary
I have been all cigarette-toothed
and smiling at you, and
I have been a fool

I have been waiting
for your eyes to send sparks
through my skin
and electrify
the sweat on my hips

(and you say I am worth
 painting, me with my
 soot-caked soles)

but dreary, the dust
has settled
and I have found you
out

so the day looks dark
sunbeams seeming
like moonlight under the clouds
streaming reminders
of histrionic histories I tried
to eclipse, but

even still
I made a promise

woven circles into my wrists
silver vows that I would
never
again smash
under a stranger's hands

(and you
 have done nothing
 so terrible to me, you
 are no criminal

 the only hurt here
 is a mild but unrequited
 ache)

so I will not remain
love-stained
today, no
I will open under the
moonlit sun and blossom
for myself this time

only for myself this time

because I am ready
to love me more
than I loved
loving you

Close Yourself Enough To Open Well This Time

cut it up

burn it down
stop the flow

your love is leaking
out from your fingers
into strangers’ mouths

the wrong people
are drinking your water
you are becoming

dehydrated, so

shut it down
break it off
let it go

kiss your own feet for a day
teach yourself to touch
your own skin

you deserve to begin
again, as often as it takes
to grow new moss

and breathe

Cutting Curves

my frame has rounded
like a flour sack filling up
through the years
and I have become
curved

I suppose that makes me
a "real woman"

but I felt real
before
and I did not hate
my reflection so much

my insides were on fire and they twisted
into angry knots when I slept
I know that I disliked
what was underneath my skin, but
my skin itself
looked alright, at least

and nowadays I am told
to keep my chin
up more often than
when I was thin

(so I must assume that my chin
 has justifiable cause
 to sink
 now that I am
 rounder)

I will admit that I would gladly
spend my evenings
cutting curves
from my hips and belly
even though I know

that souls do not grow more beautiful
when they diet -
they only waste into bone matter
with nothing warm or kind to hold onto

so I suppose a thick soul is best
but if I could look
just a little bit
littler
around the edges
and still keep a nice fat heart
I cannot help but think

it would feel better

Unfaithful

I have not yet written this part of our story
because I wanted to get it just right.
I wanted to be sure
to accurately describe
the glisten in your eyes

as you lied to me.

It took six months for the skeletons
to wander out of your closet
and into my hands.

You sewed your lips into a satisfied grin
and muddied the waters of my memory,
weaving some half-invented tapestry
depicting your poor, broken heart.
You held it up
for everyone to see
so that each time I opened my mouth
you could slap the words out of it
and call me cold.

It must have been so
easy
to blame me
with her there to comfort you.

So tell me:
was she warmer than our bed with me in it?
Did I not cover my wounds well enough
to support the story you tell yourself
about how you would
never
hurt me?
Maybe making me cry
was just too hard on your ego.
I'm sure you made her moan plenty
to make up for it.

And after you were finished with her,
did you want what was left of me?
You must have, since you did not hesitate
to devour my skin, with the taste of hers
still lingering on your soiled tongue.
I'll bet I still felt pretty damn good
under your fingers, and I never
even had to find out
what you did.

At least, that's what you told her,
isn't it?

It took six months for the cracks in your skin
to let out the secrets you'd been keeping,
but I see through you now.

This morning, I took it out
on my own gums as I brushed them.
Blood trickled through my teeth, and
I wished it was yours, but
my smile still looks fearsome
and I still feel stronger.

So I dare you
to deny it.

My claws have been waiting
for you to point those broken fingers
at me again. I dare you to say that I am wrong.

You said that you hated my poems
before, but this will be worse.
I will write a hole through your gut.
I will burn the flesh from your hands.
I will show the world your dirty sheets.

Go ahead and tell your friends
that I broke your heart.
Tell them I am soulless.
Tell them I am a bitch.

In the meantime, I will tell your children
about every night that you fucked her
and still had the nerve
to sing me to sleep.

I will tell them how you promised
you would marry me someday
and I will tell them
how you lied.

The Problem of Containment

love is not a baseball
it is not something I can throw around
toss to trusted pitchers
or catch in a single gloved hand

this is not a game
I am tired of playing love like a flute
keeping the notes precisely between my lips
and waiting for the chords to make sense

and you are not a flower
you do not wait for daylight to unfold you
nor do you bloom in only certain seasons
you are not predictable that way

so I had better
give up on settling the scoreboard
cut the music out of the background
and stop checking my watch for spring to come

because you are not a metaphor
you are not a literary device

you are standing in front of me, breathing
and we both deserve something more real than

poetry