Vomit, Take Two

I.

Granola doesn't taste quite the same
slathered in a pumpkin sweet blanket,
but something's missing
and water won't fill up the hole.
Drink a liter or two a day, but you'll only
drown in your own light.
Water leaves, granola falls away,
and at the end, I still have this sickly sweet feeling
that I'm losing air, and you're taking it away.


II.

Can I braid your hair? Left over right over left,
and I'll practice on a friendship bracelet,
make sure I'll get it just right.
Always going down, never bringing up. Never learned
to show my face to the sun, and your hair
is so shiny in the light.
It pours down into the holes between braids
and maybe gets lost or trickles down
to the hairband.
I don't wash my face yet,
but you do. It's matte. Mine shines,
but it's not from inside like you.

III.

I want to sit in the living room with you
and feel the scratchy throw blanket behind us,
but not when we lean forward to get food.
I want the light to be dim,
just like it always is in the house --
never enough to see clearly, makes me want
to go outside and run and jump.
But you're inside, together.
A sandwich I made for you,
on a napkin we'll burn together later,
and though you hardly look at me because
the television is on and it's House again,
I know you'll turn to me on commercial
and kiss me, and maybe share some mustard.


IV.

Stacked in corners, half full,
spilling over with what we once cherished.
Yours labeled with the initials
that I once traced over my notebook: TR,
TR, TR, TR, TR, over and over, I took your R.
But now the piano's yours so I can keep
the wardrobe and the dining room table.

Do you remember our Valentine's brunch?
The only brunch we were together --
eggs that ran water onto the plate
and made the toast soggy, but the bacon
was burnt and crumbled to the touch.
But you smiled and I wasn't hungry anymore,
because I felt full and satisfied knowing that
for just that moment, that morning,
I could make you happy.

Now where will the cardboard boxes go?
You haven't told me who she is.
I haven't told you who he is, either, but my
boxes won't go to him. I'm leaving him, too.
I figure the sweaters and your smile
would clog up his life too much and make us sigh and drown.
I promise I won't try to find your address,
just don't forget to clean the crumbs from your toaster.

Vomit

stuff from picture prompts people sent me from mystery google. um. yes.

I.

We always loved looking at pictures of other people, Ferris and I. She had a photographic memory, and I had a guitar and a voice, and we brought them to life in the only way we knew how.

Sometimes, I wondered how she could cope with having so many faces floating around in her head. Did she organize them? Old men with yellowed eyes -- did they take up a separate floor from the babies we saw, the toddlers with their innocent smiles?

We named them on whims. And we had favorites, like Jesse Webster. He was a broody-looking guy with curly black hair and a pair of brown eyes that twinkled even in a yearbook. We decided his girlfriend was a gothic girl who cut herself and that the only way he ever felt useful was by saving her from herself. She was using him. We'd yet to find a picture of her, though. When we wrote a song about Jesse, we called her Patrice. The song was a little death-metal and a little pop. Jesse probably liked pop.

Pictures of ourselves were weird things, though. We always took it upon ourselves to make personalities for the faces we looked at. When Ferris looked at herself, though, she said she found someone completely different than who she was. She said she was scared of the picture Ferris -- like there was a power harbored in the paper that she couldn't recognize in her own body.

When she took her own life, I wondered if it was her or the other Ferris.

II.

"I didn't know that dogs got cancer, too," said Emilia.
"Of course they do, honey. We just don't know as much about it."
"But I don't want Fluffy to die."
"I don't want Fluffy to die either. That's why we have to take him to the vet. The doctor can help him."
"I don't think that the doctor will help him."
"The doctor will be able to see the bump, baby, and test it, and see what we can do."
"What if the doctor can't see the bump?"
"Well, if there's a bump the doctor can't see, then he can't help Fluffy and he'll just stay home with us until he can't stay with us anymore." Emilia's mom patted her shoulder and then stood up from the chair, moving Emilia to her own chair.
"I'm going to call daddy, okay?"
"Okay." Emilia looked down at her dog as her mother left the room. Fluffy's left eye was pressured into being half closed by a tumor that had been growing in size for about a month.
"Fluffy, we're best friends, so I'm going to save you." Emilia went to the cupboard and pulled a paper bag out. She put it over the dog's head.
"Now the doctor will let you stay with me forever," she said, and wrapped her arms around the dog's golden furry body.

III.

"Oh man, oh man," said Bridgette.
"What?" Alex asked, dropping the nerf gun to let it hang at his side.
"You look super badass in this picture," she said, turning the digital camera so he could see. All Alex saw was himself. He looked slightly bored. His Nerf Gun was cool. But Bridgette's smile told him there was another story hiding in the picture that he just couldn't see.
"What are you talking about?"
"You look, minus the background and the out-of-period props, like you probably commanded a fucking pirate ship or something."
"You're crazy."
"Seriously. You know, I love that we hang out and everything, and you're super fun, but would it kill you to tell me about your past lives as a raging pirate? I swear, I'd be your wench."
Alex looked at Bridgette's freckles as she spoke, trying to avoid the whirlpool charm of her blue eyes or the net of her silky red hair.
"I just can't provide any solid numbers. I lost track of the number of people I murdered when my belt got swept away into the ocean after I fucked a few of my wenches dry."
"Marry me," said Bridgette.

IV.

"I like sandwiches."
"Make me a sandwich, bitch."
"I said I liked them first, so make ME one, you chauvinist pig."
"Stubborn bitch," said Claude. Claire laughed and kicked him in the shin.
"Wanna go to Subway?" she asked. He shrugged, and she headed out the door to the car. Claude followed, dragging their coats behind. Claire always forgot her coat.
"Got my coat?" she called back as she reached the snow-covered car and felt the chill of the January wind.
"Yeah, I got your fucking coat," said Claude.

Inside the car was still cold, but the heater nearly drowned out the conversation as it worked as hard as it could to save the couple from freezing to death.
"You know what else I like?" said Claire.
"Kinky sex?" asked Claude.
"Babies. I think if I could just have a sandwich and a baby, I could die happy."
"I could help with that," said Claude, wiggling his eyebrows in an attempt to seduce Claire. She gave him a look that said 'you wish', and then said,
"Like I'd ever want to actually HAVE a baby rip through my vagina. I think I'd die. Then I wouldn't live to enjoy the baby, so I'd die unhappy with only a sandwich. I mean. I probably just want to kidnap one. Do you think that's okay?"
"If the mom didn't want it, I guess..."
"But like, then it wouldn't be a cute baby. I want a cute baby, and mom's always want cute babies, so they'd like their baby."
"If there's a baby at Subway, do you want to steal it?"
"Let's totally steal it."
"What kind of sandwich are you getting?"
"Tuna."

Ambassador

Violet had woken up once in the middle of the night to the sound of the thunder. Outside it was raining and gray. It still felt like early morning but it was nearly noon. Violet drank her tea and tried to keep calm. She stared out the window at the rain and smelled the rain and waited.
“Have you heard anything about his flight?”
“I just checked and it left Chicago on time.”
“Tell me how safe airplanes are, Yelly, just one more time.”
“There's a higher chance of dying in a car crash than on an airplane.”
“No matter how long the flight is?”
“No matter how long the flight is.”
“So he'll be okay?”
“Don't worry.”
“I wonder if he's worried.”
“I'm sure he's not worried. You shouldn't worry either.”
“He'll be okay.”
“Yes.” Yelly took another bite of her toast. It was dry. Violet had dropped the butter on the kitchen floor. After Yelly had cleaned it up, she hadn't been in the mood for jam.
“But it's raining. What if the runway is too slippery for a landing?”
“The weather could be different at the airport. Do you want me to check?”
“Please check.” Her tea was getting cold. Yelly took her toast with her to the other room. She checked the weather at the airport. It was raining there, too.
“Don't worry about it,” Yelly said. She walked about into the kitchen and said,
“Don't worry about it.”
“Is it raining there, too?”
“No.”
“What if the rain moves?”
“It's heading East.”
“So it won't go to the airport?”
“Don't worry, Vi.” Yelly threw the rest of her toast in the sink. Violet took another sip of her tea and didn't notice it was cold.
“It's raining pretty heavily.”
“But it's not storming.”
“Did you know lightning can be just in the clouds, though? Cloud to cloud.”
“Yes.”
“So even if we don't see any lightning, it could hit the plane.”
“It won't hit the plane. Please just shut up about it.”
“I'm just worried.”
“Well stop worrying and go read or something.”
“I just wish I could sleep until he got here. And then wake up, and he'd be here.”
“Then take a sleeping pill.”
“Then I wouldn't be able to wake up.”
“Jesus, Vi, stop talking about it. If anything, your negative energy is gonna bring that plane down, so you gotta stop worrying about it.”
Violet was quiet. She emptied her cup and then put it in the sink. She went to the window and looked up at the sky. It was gray. White fog was creeping over the tops of the mountains. It could be an ambassador for anything.
“Why don't you go watch tv or something?”
“I'm too worried.”
“Just go watch tv.”
Violet went into the living room and sat down on the couch. She didn't turn the tv on. She started at the blank screen.
“Turn it on, Violet.”
She reached for the remote and held it in her hand. Her hand rested on her thigh. Her fingers felt too shaky to press a certain button. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something else.
“Turn it on.”
She pressed the power button. Yelly came to stand in the doorway. Commercials.
“What's on at eleven?”
“Talk shows I think.”
“When does the news come on?”
“I don't know.”
“He'll be here before the evening news.”
“Why do you want to watch the news?”
“I just do.”
“I told you, if you keep worrying about it--”
“Shhh, the commercials are over.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“It might not be his plane.”
“You said that planes were safe, Yelly! You told me they were safe!”
“It's not his plane! It can't be his plane. Shut up so we can listen.”
“Look at the smoke. It's so white. Oh God, oh God.”

Jesse Webster

The lake shimmered behind the man who had come to be my bliss and my torture. He spoke with power he'd never had and promised me prizes that didn't exist.
"Kiss me," he whispered, "and I'll show you the stars." I saw in his eyes his mad belief and felt my heart's deepest wound re-open.
"Love me, and I will give them to you." He told me that, piece by piece, I would come to own the universe, if only I'd give him my heart in return. I cried. He didn't know the joke he was speaking. My mind, my body, and my soul had been Jesse Webster's since we were barely sixteen.
"Why won't you love me?" he screamed. I told him with my eyes that I did. He didn't understand my words. I hoped he'd understand my soul.
"All I ever wanted was to be your slave, Marguerite, and you deny me that pittance?"
"My name is Sylvie," I said.
"Where are our daughters?" he asked.
"We never raised any children," I responded.
"You stole them and hid them on the stars, didn't you?" He laughed and called me a genius.
I reached for his hand. He gave it to me and watched with his crystal gray eyes as I pressed his palm to my lips. I kissed it twice, then pulled him in to me and kissed his lips. I waited for a hint of recognition.
"Did you see the stars?" he asked. I kissed him again and felt his lips move against mine, reacting even if he didn't know me for me.
"I love you," I said. He let go of my hand, then, to grasp my cheeks between his hands. He'd always been rough, but his touch hurt. He kissed my nose.
"Let's go home, Jesse," I pleaded. He turned and looked out at the lake with a longing I could identify. He wanted to understand it. But it was getting cold and dark. I took him home.

i can't get over it.

the emerald plastic twisted and fell away
in sheaves, coils of brotherhood detatched.
i sang with their falling and laughed with their parting,
because i stayed whole as they went.

the brown patch they left on my wrist
was disconcerting, but soon it faded and speckled,
seemed like sunlight through blinds shot through
with pellets or bird seed, doves too careless with breakfast.

from the pot on the fire, a steam rose up like a lily,
white and dancing with the first spring breeze
(a moment no mother could capture, busy with child,
who buzzed as loudly) as it blew past spectre leaves.

because, if she was there, who needed me?

zits.

what's pretty?
a yellow umbrella and red shoes.
pink, rose lips.
long, tangled brown hair in a little white wind,
because it's cold and i'm breathing.
matching autumn colors.
eyelashes.
metal alarm clocks.
the strand that always falls back in your face.
and the way we both pop them,
instead of leaving well enough alone.

[why does it always come back to you?]

wonderful

When she wrote on the walls, no one paid it any mind. It was as if in this world, writing on the walls was acceptable – just another way to decorate a world otherwise painted in tones of determination and desperation. From that moment, she couldn’t look back into the world where writing on the walls was bad. The memories of that time still glided to the surface when she called them, but the pencil on the wall said her parents didn’t know how beautiful thin gray lines looked against white wash.
“Yeah, that’s how it’s spelled,” said Ruth. She didn’t notice the texture of the pencil on the wall. Mia nodded too. Quinn wrote the rest of the sentence just for the feeling of pencil against wall, then smiled and lay back down in her bed.
‘Sure, that’s how it’s spelled,’ thought Quinn, closing her eyes.

Quinn looked back at the wall the next night. It said ‘wonderful’. It was wonderful. It would stay there, gray and a little smudged, until she decided to take an eraser to it. Her converse would stay dirty, too, stained with colors from berries and when she did tye-dye with her sister. She could clean them, but that would mean banishing the dirt as well. Character came with either suffering or dirt. She’d run out of bandaids, so her converse stayed dirty.

“Wonderful,” she whispered, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

before i die, i'll write some poems.

[Inspired by old bucket lists on YWS, I decided to join in. <3]



- Plant and grow a pink orchid

Summer at a cabin
where it always smelled like pine needles
and spiders lived in trailers of their own.
And they would sit together on the porch
and look out at the world, from their little place
on the lake, where I played.
And in the garden by the sump pump,
I grew a lily with my mom.
We found turtle eggs, my teddy bear,
and squirrels in the dresser.

- Plant and grow a pea plant

My pencil traced a curly q,
for I had nothing more to do,
than sit and stare at the back of you.
She gave us seeds and paper towel,
and told us to wait for an hour,
my plant it grew, life gave me power.
It curled and danced in stuffy white,
and slumbered when I gave it night,
but in the end, it failed.

- Raise a tadpole

I may have shaken him too much,
or tried too hard,
but he was dead by the time I got home.
And even worse than being dead
was the fact that I had no
opportunity
left.
So where could I go after that?
I let him fall into the grass,
and hoped that someday, frogs would come again.

- Save a black cat from an animal shelter

When we grow up, we learn to feel sick, like we got punched in the stomach.
"My cat died."
I let my cat die, whether I believe that or not.
He was smelly, and he wasn't fluffy, and I'm a girl,
and cats should be fluffy and cuddly,
but he was a boy, and he was skinny, and his nose ran.
So we let him outside, because cats like it there.
But then we wouldn't let him back in.
I learned it was okay to keep pushing him out,
and when my temper called for it,
I built up brick walls,
that no amount of mewling or nose running could break down, even if he tried.
I think he knew what we were doing.
I think he cried sometimes at night because we didn't love him.
I think if I let myself remember my cruelty, I'd cry, too.
I can't make it up to you, but I'll ...

I can't make it up to you.

- Sing at the Paris Opera House

In sleep he sang to me,
voice falling, sweeping over my ears as
soft as silk, as velvet, a cape in black.
I told him he could sing anything
and it would make me relax, let me sleep,
and I took CD's from the library
and I put them in my computer.
Sitting on my bed, I worked through the crevices
and the dips and the hills and the peaks
and the pure triumphs of vocal chords
that he gave me. And when she came along, too,
it was as if my world were complete in
two strangers. Her voice was like crystal,
like running your finger along the wet rim
of a glass you were drinking from.
She rang in my heart as much as my ears,
and she gave my throat wings,
and they give me hope and inspiration,
so I want to take myself home.

- Swim in the ocean, with somewhere to go

Because life's really like an ocean.
Always moving, always a fight against the rolling punches,
one after another, if they hit you right they'll drag you
down. But you can jump through and persevere.
Some people have never even seen real life,
they don't know what it is, where it is.
Some have stood at the edge and never dared to dance
with bare feet in the bald face of life.
Fewer still have immersed themself in life, a taste
of the salty catches (it's not smooth) and
only the true stars swim through life.
Who has swum through life? Who goes through the ocean?
Who can live that kind of absolute intensity?
I will spend my time trying to get back to life,
let me immerse myself for a day in true energy.


- Learn to play the piano

Stumbling upon pretty sounds, pretty sums of security
I never earned, I never asked for.
And I'm choking, freezing up, I feel the
solid solid keys pressing back at me.
I want to push them down once and for all
to make them stick, they make me fall
in love. When I heard your key change,
I felt something true that I never knew could come
from some strings and some fingers and you.

- Be taken seriously

I'll give you bubbles and colors
and smiles and cheers and wide eyes
and cat tails and lipstick and pink,
but only because that's your taste.
Behind my manufactured eyes
live peacocks, brilliant, proud,
and so very sure of themselves.
I like to wear sweaters and skirts
when my legs freeze, as long as they're
covered in bright tights. In bright lights,
you'll see I'm more than what you think.

- Have a personal library

In corners, an ever moving labyrinth
to get lost in and sit in an easy chair there,
something soft and old and loved already,
books up to my elbows, and that spicy,
home-smell [not new magazines, no],
and a soft yellow light,
and a couple of butterflies for effect.

- Be brave enough to do something scary

The kitchen sink is too high up,
and stools are known to fail.
You yell at me, I'll sprain my knee,
and so I stay on the ground.
And now I cling to the ground,
and now I live on the ground, but what
happened to learning on my own?
What happened to the sense of adventure?
To climbing in trees that had no branches to climb?
To two skinned knees, mosquito bites, missing teeth?

- Dance on pointe

Inside, I'm dancing, but my body can't keep up,
and the wind outside twirls for me, the leaves jump for me,
and the crickets play their dazzling, ribbed symphony,
but I cannot thank them appropriately, because
I haven't learned their rhythm and their movements.

- Visit a star

A meerkat looked up, and asked if the warthog could make them,
and in the circle of life, disney told me I could wish on them.
And every night, when the clouds go away, I can see them,
I can look at them, I can try to count them, but I know I won't.
And sometimes they scare me -- the empty space between scares me,
because what could be living there, staring right back at me?
I want to go and see, and be among the blazing, glazed-over
red-orange-molten candy, the metal and the golden sparks
in their vast, cold kingdom. Would I be permitted past the guards?

- Sleep outside without a tent

Well the wind's a tender blanket,
paired with a real quilt,
like the one my mom said she'd make from my childhood,
but the grass is a fine pillow,
paired with my arm, a flesh
I can always depend on to fit itself perfectly.
And the sky is a wide movie screen,
on which I can watch
my whole life play out before my eyes -- reflect.

- Fly

Every night I dream
of flying.
Like swimming through the sky,
slowly floating,
gently dipping,
confident of who I am
and everything I can do.
And why can't I
dream when I'm awake?

but i don't want a bandage.

i can feel my heart beating in my chest
and taking up all the space beneath my ribs.
it pounds and hits and throbs
and i'm almost sure you can hear it
over the sound of the telephone ringing.
i used to feel this way
when i was scared and nervous,
before i made an important move,
or when a boy would talk to me and smile.
it was reserved for scary moments,
wrong moves, and accidents,
so why does my heart beat fast now?

it must be that light i feel inside,
the one that never quite fits inside my skin,
and she's pounding to be let go.
she says "today it's not right,
and maybe a weekend cut the rope and
loosed the boat and
wrecked the shore."
and blood pools behind my eyes, i feel it,
but as i sit and let the rolling fill me again,
i feel it die.

it's a little sickly-sweet to feel betrayed and bruised,
but i'll hum and close my eyes
until my arms tingle then go numb,
and i won't need a bottle or a glass,
and my legs will fall away, my chest will
slice into pieces and tumble,
cartoonish almost, in this void i found.

because when we're falling and fading and crying,
when we can't press the x-button, we can't see
through our tears,
there's no save points in life, and
my heart will beat fast with the recognition of failure,
but it will slow
and it will stop.

i sometimes dance in my bed.

Come fly with me.
Let’s fly, let’s fly away.
Where moonbeams eat away
at every corner of the darkened day.

I thought I was alone in my white sheets
and the curtains clattered in the wind,
making noises.
But as it comes in gusts
the wood of the walls twists and spirals
in upon itself
and sends forward slimy worms
with fettered feet in rows of rose-pink flesh.

“Come to us,” they hiss,
tap-tap-tap dancing across the pine knots and
between horizons. They pop and
lock between growls. I glare back and curl my toes.
Each one a worm-clone, each one dancing
to the flow of blood
pounding, building, in my head.
Because I hang backwards off my bed.
I blush,
but still the worms dance.

I wrap my arms once, twice,
three times around the pillow and I spin
off the bed, into the piles
of the carpet – lush. High pile.
Let me rest here with the worms.

cardigan

She let her head rest on my shoulder. For a few moments, the world swayed. It felt like we were still in the water, jumping through water that hadn't been there before, and floating back down as the wave passed. Even the music faltered a little, dipping with the jitter of my heart, but I could only blame that on the sound quality and coincidence. It had been warping itself all night as we watched the flashing pictures together.

I thought back to that morning. I ate toast for breakfast. I wore a purple cardigan. I put my hair in pigtails. The entire time I was looking in the mirror, though, I was thinking of what Serena would like best. Yesterday, she'd worn an olive green cardigan that slid over her waist and stomach like water -- it fit her well. I pulled mine in from the sides so it would bunch over my stomach. It pulled back away and strained at the buttons again in the time it took to walk downstairs.

I thought back to that afternoon. We had English class together. During the ten minute break between hours, she'd come and push me off half of my desk chair, press her thigh against mine, and draw circles and shells on my notebook paper.
"I hate reading, Lexi, I really do. What is the point of it?" Her voice was dreamy. The tips of her wavy, blonde hair touched my desk every once in a while when her head dipped low in a doze. Once, she almost fell off the chair. I reached my arm around to save her, just an instinct, and I felt her ribs through her t-shirt, through a small layer of tender skin. My thumb was brushing in places I knew it wasn't welcome. I let go as soon as she was balanced. She didn't notice, but my face burned.

I thought back to that evening. We ate alfredo together, straight from the pot. We hovered over the stove together and twisted noodles around real silver forks.
Sometimes, stray pasta would hang down into the warming air, and I'd watch her lift the fork above her head and lower it into her mouth rather than suck it up and risk a mess. Still, her efforts were in vain. A little bit of cream sauce got left on her chin. She didn't notice it. I reached forward and wiped it off in one stroke of my thumb.
I willed her to feel my secret through my fingertip, but she acted as if it were normal. I guess it was normal. But I wanted more.

"Serena," I said. She hummed. I slid my hand down behind her back and wrapped my fingers around her waist again. She hummed again and pushed a little towards me to make herself comfortable. It was normal, and it was platonic to her, but I could feel myself blushing, and I wished she could see how awkward it made me feel. I wanted her to know without telling her.
I felt if she looked into my eyes just once, she'd know. I felt like all the blood rushing to my cheeks would have some effect on the way my irises gleamed in the light from the TV. But she was breathing slowly and evenly now. At least I had her asleep in my arms.

it's okay.

“It’s so hard to speak English,” she said. Her accent was off, and she stressed the wrong words, but the wind spun through her black-in-black hair like it would move through anyone else’s.
“I’m Korean,” she said. As if it were the explanation and excuse for everything, as if it could dismiss whatever came in the future. She looked good in her skirt. It was muted plaid and it fit with the fall. He nodded and reached for her hand.
“I know,” he said. “It’s okay.” For him, there was something about her eyes that told him it didn’t matter if she could say exactly what she meant. There were nuances to every language, but the important things were learned first. After introductions, who doesn’t learn how to say “I love you”?
“Do you want to go for a walk?” he asked, speaking slowly. She looked at his hand, and her own, and then at her skirt. Even as she shook her head, the way a wet dog would shake, her hair fell right back into place. It was straight as pins. Her glare was like daggers.
“Okay, we don’t have to,” he said. He moved his hand to his nose and brushed off a strand of imaginary hair. He didn’t know what to say.
“Let’s go out,” she said, pulling at the edges of her skirt, flaring it out until she looked like the moon setting over Chiak Mountain, her face the clear brightness of a harvest night. He nodded, and they moved to town without saying a word. The walk was brisk, like moving chess pieces over a board, and easy.
She downed her beer and then had another, and he watched her. She took them one after another in silence while the room buzzed around them. He slid his hand forward over the wooden tabletop and felt his finger tips press against hers. He felt the way his skin flattened to meet hers. She kept drinking with her other hand, but at least she acknowledged the content.
What was worst for him was that habit she had – she moaned a little when she was overwhelmed. Every time she felt a wave of being buzzed, she’d let out a little whine or a sigh. Once, perhaps excusable, but after a while, he started counting through the vibrations in her finger. Six in a minute, ten in a minute, and once when she was drinking, she stifled all noises in favor of forgetting.
“I’m Korean,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “It’s okay.”

like her lips were cinnamon

She looked like she belonged in old time movies. Her skin bagged around her eyes. It was something in the grains of her skin that blurred and left me wondering if she knew what she looked like. I told myself before I would never like a girl that hid herself in make up, but I liked what she hid. Even when she smudged her eyeliner, she looked like a queen.
“It smells like a lake of jasmine winter frogs,” she said one day. Everyone laughed. I saw her eyes blink and saw her short eyelashes stick together for longer than they had last time, and I knew it hurt her. Everyone looked for the Technicolor belly laughs, but she was giving them faded, pastel giggles. I wanted to hold her hand from the tips of my fingers that would touch her to my knees that would buckle in on their bony selves.
“Whatever,” she said. Her breath came out in the cold like she’d been smoking a cigarette and only then did she notice the absence of nicotine.
“Does anyone have a light?” I didn’t smoke. Someone else offered his lighter. It was metal, and I knew it would be cold against her fingers, but she never wore gloves. I exhaled. Maybe one particle of my breath would reach her hand and warm it in secret.
“What are you staring at?” And I could swear I heard her tongue caress the r’s, and glide gently away as the teeth took over for her delayed hiss, but instead of remembering to answer, I kept staring. I almost felt her lips part from mine, there in the dusk. She turned away on her heel and pulled up one leg of her tights that had been drooping.
In another universe I told her how beautiful she looked in red and the way I wanted her legs wrapped around me. In another universe I brushed the strand of blonde hair from her face and cupped her face in my hand. But in this universe, I watched her walk away with her arm linked through another man’s flannel jacket.
I went home and poured potato flakes into a bowl and ate them with cold water. I closed my eyes and pretended she’d walked home with me instead, and I wondered if she’d yell at me for eating cold, fake potatoes. Would she cook me something instead? But an apron wouldn’t fit quite right with her leather jacket.
“Get the fuck off the couch,” she’d say, for no reason. She wouldn’t really care. She’d yell just to hear the gravel in her voice. I’d get up from the couch. I got up from the couch and walked towards the ghost that danced in my mind, and I pushed it. She fell to the cold, wooden floor and a smile flashed across her face for the smallest moment. After all, it wasn’t every day that you could sincerely fall all the way to the ground.
“What are you doing?” she’d ask. I could see the faded sparkles in her eyes, like a universe flickering as it died, and I knew she’d liked the moment of excitement. I fell to the floor on my knees and felt the jolt of pain through my knee caps. I felt her soft hair beneath my wrist as I sat to comfort her.
But the house was empty.

how should i freeze?

I’m sitting by the window
as it gets colder and colder,
but I won’t slide it shut just yet. I like the sound
of motorcycles,
of strange bugs,
of possibilities I could chase if only I had a friend.

I know the world is beautiful
even when it’s cold. I feel the beauty of goose bumps.
I can see my hair stand on end
and say,
“That’s me.”
But if I close the window,
all I have left are freckles,
and my bra strap that won’t stay up.

Beauty isn’t living until it’s captured,
and captured isn’t beauty until it’s faded.
But how can I fade my life and still be here?