more good, better

Why are you insecure about your body !?

A stranger on the internet asks,

His hands,

clutching his crotch

as he seeks stories of flesh in the cartoon breasts of my

avatar.

He’s trying so hard to get off.

It’s possible to have a cornerstone

Which you didn’t build yourself.

or maybe you did,

Not sure where it came from,

Sure what you did

didn’t help.

 

I’m laying on the couch

In some shorts

In the living room with my parents:

My step-dad says “when did your thigh get so big?”

(Size doesn’t matter unless a man’s the one looking,)

He has a grin on his face.

You used to be so skinny-minny;

I withdraw

for the rest of the day.

 

This week I looked in the mirror

And I said “I love you” to my face.

It felt amazing,

Like rolling, movement

it felt a lot like change.

 

In five years I want to

look in the mirror

And remember when I only saw hate.

I want to meet my eyes and

tell that reflection:

I used to be

 

a lot of things.

Newsboy

I’m reading your poems and I’m looking for me.

I’m turning over stones and I’m searching for us-

I’m opening snapchats

Breath caught in my chest,

I wrote a new poem,

Let’s see it.

Let’s see our year:

This time,

These fights,

Our love:

Let’s see that power she triggered.

I thought for sure

In your happiness,

You’d write about me for once, too.

I know I sound bitter,

I’m crazy they have you,

What I’m asking for’s extra, extra.

Need more than to know it,

Need more than to feel it,

Want to, so badly

Print reassurance,

I’m waiting to

read all about it.

Death

I dropped my best friend off at the bus station this morning.

Only one of us cried.

And walking back I had the strangest sense that I was going to die.

And I was at peace with it.

I felt sure that any one of the people around me would be my demise- that man in the blue suit with the white roll of blueprints in his hand- maybe there was a gun in there, maybe he was on his way to snap.

He’d make the news for shooting up his corporate office, but first I’d get in the way. And I was okay with that.

That stranger in the hoodie with the slow, slow gait walking ahead of me might pull out a knife.

And I was okay with it.

Any one of these cars, with the windows rolled down…

The man shaking the coins in his cup.

The people who always push and argue in front of the smoke shop, right on the way back home.

I was okay with it, I was okay with it, why was I okay with it?

But as the light grew brighter my fear got more intense, like smoke on its gray sky, more opaque.

I climbed the stairs and then took the elevator, into a world just waking up, and looked right down the hall like I always do, though I live on the left.

My boyfriend’s room is there, to the right.

My friends’ rooms are scattered across this floor, and the lingering sense of death clung to my shuffling feet as I passed their doors and thought about a fire, like the one we all playacted at not too long ago, the one that had almost happened just one floor up, a blaze that would creep quietly- no- flare up instantly- to engulf me and the people I love.

I wasn’t okay with it, anymore.

Well, maybe just a little.

But the weird thing about it is that I’m not suicidal. Never have been.

I guess it’s easier to will the universe to kill you than accept that you want to do it yourself.

I guess it’s simpler to feel like you’re going to die

Than to feel just about anything else.

City (awake)

My city never sleeps.

It’s up all night.

Just like three college students drunk on being tired

who perused 7/11 like a Thanksgiving feast

spread out on a maplewood table.

It’s South Street diner where the Cuban sandwich

will melt in your mouth

at 3:00 AM.

With the packed-full booths and the shouting cooks,

scrape of the spatula on a sizzling stove,

and all the hungry human din

of the people

who just couldn’t fall asleep:

Not yet-

Who just couldn’t sacrifice this day for darkness,

Not yet-

Who needed one more kiss and one more bite

to fill their stomachs.

It’s the bright cavernous maze of the MFA,

Corridors of secret spaces to touch each other’s waists

That sweet fugitive feeling of being

where you don’t belong:

But the museum never seems to shut down.

My city is a sprawling lawn

With feet twisted together

Watching a movie framed by a warm carousel

and a cool mathematical skyline-

each pricked by bits of light and bleeding constellations.

It’s a sprawling archipelago of theaters;

a chain of culture hopped like squares on a sidewalk

Skipping stones that hit art no matter where you throw them.

My city is a highrise apartment

And the set of keys in my palm with seashell ridges

The lock that I expertly twist and kick or nudge with my hip,

The room where I sit and feel awake.

When it’s dark, when I’m tired

When the world is a rush like the street and the sirens

When my brain is soft and clouded

Still,

In this city,

I feel awake.

Stuck in love

He watched my favorite movie.

He hated it.

How could I blame him, a film student, for hating a rom-com called Stuck In Love for God’s sake?

But what I feel right now is not blame.

I feel small.

I feel like the little girl who sat in her bedroom at night

on her pink and white comforter with the flowers

With a notebook in her lap and a pen in her hand

Who wrote fairytales.

I am that little girl

Who got called out of class

To talk to Child Protective Services in the main office

And answered questions like “what does your dad feed you?”

Who was looked at like she was stupid

By plastered-on concerned adult faces

Who just wanted to do their jobs

And bring in the bad guy.

But the bad guy was never just my dad.

He lived in my brain and slept in my skin since before I was born

He pressed his thick heel on my lungs and never let me forget

The heavy hand of conflict that never ever ceased.

Divorce, for me, wasn’t a word it was a life and my earliest memory

It was my backbone and my breastbone and every single fucking bone in me.

So when I sat on my comforter

And wrote about romance

Or that bright shining willow wisp I imagined it would be

I latched onto the boys like Lou from Stuck In Love. 

I escaped into stories of people finding each other

And I don’t care if it’s not real life

Because it never had to be.

Stuck In Love is a movie about writers,

About family

About a love that I thought was sacred in my room with my pen at 15.

They have the same favorite book.

They kiss in a car in the rain to the sound of an indie song about kissing in cars in the rain.

When Lou’s mother dies of cancer, they cry

And I always cry

Because this cheesy amalgam is real to me.

It is a version of life that I could only hope for myself

It is penned by a little girl on a pink and white comforter

And she is damned proud of it.

And she should be.