it's just history

i'd burn the pictures that make me want to cry, but
after i was done
all i would be left with would be
a pile of ashes at my feet
scores of useless negatives in my hands.

sex and suicide

it's a sudden, rash decision
your body coming to collide against
the sharpness of a sudden
bang or burst or stop

and you know
you have to live with
the consequences.

gradation

i look back;
i am not the same.
a patchwork girl
pieced by time and by pain
ended; begun.
all these photographs i thumb
the memories locked away
in a receding wave;
memory as an ill tide.
the girl in these images
is not me.
she smiles and my mouth moves
in memory,
but no more
do i claim those freckles,
the sinuous curve of lashes and brow.
i am little more than mist
following images of home.
i sit
mailing envelopes full of
good news and cheer
announcing dates that seem
mere fantasy.
i fold them inside them
images of a girl
i do not recognize.

morning coffee

she has mercy on everyone,
like it's sunshine outside now
with clouds dripping away
into oblivion.

and we search for meaning
brilliant fragments we
delight in claiming
like the strangers
love us
need us

fuck us under the grim city lights
rape the ideas with
exquisite taste

stilettos and lace
morning coffee
and what you can make of
the hidden meaning
derive

night falls upon my face.
it is eleven.
we drive on.

slicksatin

if you could describe
the sweet agony of pointe,
as you stand there
admiring the shiny
pink satin,
i would respect you.
if you could tell me
of the pre-show blisters
and bleeding toenails,
i would sympathize,
tell you
my own horror stories
but quit
gushing over my shoes
when all you see
is a pretty silhouette.

waiting to run

he is ending me, slowly.
he smiles in the morning
a ghost of the emotion
a ghost of my father.
perhaps once, it was real.
maybe years ago, before
my breasts
my legs
the puppy love of
middle school
he looked at me,
really looked
and liked
what he saw.

homecoming*

leaning
on the sink, surrounded
by fuchsia tulle in my cramped,
pepto-bismo-pink-
tiled bathroom

i sponged concealer over
my wrists,
the makeup caking ineffectually inside

the raw, red weals. i

gave it up for a
lost cause, spent the night
hiding
behind
three jangling
silver bracelets




*in my B.A. senior thesis

masturbation in E# *

you string me out
like dirty hotel linen
where rooms go
hour by hour





*also in my thesis

infer

pain sharpens pleasure
brings me into you,
into me as we lie
entangled with
half-lidded eyes
caressing pain points
with soft fingertips
pressing bruises
harder, teeth
scraping necks
soft gentle thighs
with grasping hands
insistent lips
clashing teeth
so beautiful
shivers.

wishful thinking*

just once, i would love to stare
into that abyss of pooled silver,
that mirror, and see nothing
but myself. no imperfections or
indiscretions, simply me.
nothing more.






*this poem also made its way into my thesis.

"not bad for something completely unlike you"

my hands are
jagged, rough
peeling from
the way i treat you
like i push you
aside
some things
always reflect.
my hands have become a mirror,
and i do not like the reflection
that i see.
my soft, gentle hands -
how i miss them
it has been years, and
i am tired of shoving you away
of palming and pushing
while longing to pull towards
me, to be embraced.
of course, the city
enfolds me in its comfort
the bars, the lively darkness
lights leaping, yet i
am utterly alone
so alone.

alphabet the exercise

all buried, cold, dead
equilibrium frozen, gone.
heat immigrates
joy, kataclysmic
loved much, now omega-ed.
posed.
Quiet.
resting
Silent.
terrified, undying
verified while xactly
yourself
zero.

nothing more, i swear

she startles in front of me,
and i find myself trying
not to become her past.
i overcome emotions
with mere iron will
swing into place
the deadened smile
i will not languish
after you.

she comes to brush my shoulder
with her fingertips,
telling me she
saw me from far away
uneasy smile
beautiful skirt, face, body.
i turn and walk away.

disappointment

she sits in silence
thoughts pour across her small face,
as an open book.

and i know it impossible
for her mouth to tongue the affirmative
to kiss the yes of her lips

for katherine

she sits and shreds the napkin slowly.
it is noon.
she has waited for an hour.
the bottom of the cup
with its dregs of coffee
seems to wink up at her
saying, he's not coming.
but she knows this.
her book lies on the table
accusingly. she has not touched
it. she knows what she will
find in her own handwriting
in its pages.
the coffee shop door tinkles
and she looks up, not
really expecting to see
him. she is not wrong.
she looks away.
even the shop clerk knows
and she fingers the
print on her shirt.
"Dump Him."
the napkin lies in a
pile of finely ravished confetti.
she grabs her book and leaves.

peering in

the image is fuzzy, revealing
smiling faces - flushed and dazzling
one solitary moment
anticipation
and it has been so many years
the grinning people changed and
worn by time
worn into caricatures of the
portraits they once were.
like so many ancient photographs
you peer in, trying to make out
that pivotal moment, what
were they thinking?
were they as happy
as they seemed?
who are they?
searching the backs and corners
for a date, a name, a clue -
wishing you could dive into
the paper and experience
the moment,
become a smiling face
inside a photograph.

timing

10:19iamthinking
about a house, around a mile
away, with a comfortable bed,
(butmostimportantly) you
sleeping, blissfully ignoring
the rest of the world.
10:20ithoughtabout
skipping today, coming
to see you but i knew
i'd get caught so
10:21i'mwatchingnumbers
on a wall
glowing red death
ticking away the hours in
10:22hell.andthis
whole day has been one
giant trip
the entire school's on drugs
and i'm caught in the middle
10:23listeningto
Pink Floyd
what a mindfuck in these grey cinder block walls
the carpet filthy, ancient
depressing settings
10:24i'vemanaged
to create something
in five minutes.
voices laughing in the background,
yet no one speaks.

capture

your face stares
out of the 4X6 page
speaking foreign languages,
your face
is a riddle.
a year
after the moment, i can see
what you were feeling,
that exact moment you faced
an empty camera lens
my face, eager with anticipation
of capturing the photograph
of a lifetime.
you knew our future,
you turned
never bothering to hide
the pain you felt.
you knew it was inevitable.

that morning

and i am simply a fool
to be here; i'll regret morning
when it comes. but your fingertips
trail shapes in the darkness
pierced only by candles
and i feel your touch on my skin.

and yes; my skin
has missed you, i have missed you. i was a fool
to stay away so long. the candles
burn tiny flames into the morning
trying to stave away the darkness
but in the meantime - your fingertips

as the song sings, "your fingertips,
- anyone will do..." but not for my skin -
i need you - your face in the darkness
smiling, and my own smile in return; i'm not a fool
to be here after all, and the morning
is a brighter aspect lit by the flames of candles.

the candles
drip wax onto your fingertips
as you pinch the flames in the morning
leaving charcoal on your skin
but you don't mind; you're a fool
still smiling at the thought of the darkness.

i lay entangled in you. the darkness
encroached, and the candles
didn't help at all. "was i a fool
to think at all?" your fingertips
traced the beat of the song into my skin
and i hated to leave in the morning.

and this morning
is not a welcome change from the darkness
we so enjoyed, your skin
and mine together under the light of candles
as you trailed words with your fingertips
and the song is wrong, i'm not a fool

not in the morning, with the candles
mere nubs; the darkness and your beautiful fingertips
caressing my skin; oh no, i am no fool.

guilt

she still loved him
waking up in the night
to ache for his touch
and he was long gone
but she refuses to live with regret, vaguely
hoping to one day never need the tears
she says she will be happy
for the time she received,
but she cries at night,
soaking her pillow in bitter salt.
she pores over his pictures,
trying to interpret
the look in his eyes,
in her own.
was i happy, did he
know that one day,
i would leave?
she wonders,
tracing the line
of his jaw
was it meant to end this way,
was the entire thing
simply a mistake?