/ your eyes \
her nose was crooked
he had wanted to make her perfect
he had made her insecure
she had a lip ring
another one of his adventures
“you’re too soft, for your own good.”
she had three cracked ribs
tripping down the stairs
because she was dizzy
and not eating
“i will not take a fat bitch with me.”
she had a bruised cheek
a reminder that he was in control
besides “beauty is pain.”
her back was scarred
“don’t you dare try to run away again.”
her eyes had constellations in them
new-world galaxies, yet to be discovered
her eyes were perfect
but she still wore contacts
because she was scared
not of him
but of his actions
one piece
one piece was all she asked for
one peice of her left unchanged
thin lines drawn upon her wrist
skillfully
a pool of blood around her
“martha winters was declared dead at 8:28 on February 2nd, 1987.”
he didn’t realize his love
was the cause of her destruction
The Meaning of Life
What am I, you ask?
I come in abundance when I am freely given
But I whither away when I am withheld.
I grow beyond space and time when I am true
But I shrink to nothingness when I am not.
I light up the world with colour and light
I warm up your heart and feed your soul.
I am what everyone yearns for, searches for,
Yet fears losing.
Some say the risk of finding me is too great,
For I am difficult to keep.
But there in itself lies the risk.
For without finding me, life is not worth its moments.
Find me, nourish me, respect me, keep me.
Let me guide the way for you.
All you need to do is accept me and where others fail to do so,
Teach them, forgive them but do not let me go.
Hold my hand and I will keep your heart and path alight.
With this light you will never lose your way.
I am Love.
Invisible
Love—
let's name it—
is not for me what it is for you.
Love, my love,
is something altogether linear—
or would be
if only I hadn't tangled the wire
if only I hadn't strung myself up
if only I hadn't strung you out
if only I hadn't hung the Polaroid of you
on the wall, and then from the moon.
My love, love,
is Point A and Point B—
I cannot coil the useless love I have for you
into the circle that would knit
Point A (me) and Point B (you)
into kiss, kiss, reprise, finale.
Once, an endless number of days ago
two lovers lay in Washington Heights
atop Ikea sheets drenched in lilacs atop
a bed atop a parquet floor
(desirable, insisted the realtor).
One lover said to the other:
What if I love you more than you love me?
One lover did not say this. One lover
said nothing at all. Perhaps there was
a smile as fleeting as the soiled August
breeze leaving its sooty prints on our sill.
Do you remember who you were,
which lover?
Do you remember any of it?
Now, I am the din outside that once-window,
I am buses and cars and schoolchildren and
bodegas and basketballs and babies.
In other words, my love,
I am just out there, of no particular consequence
to you, just the noise of your periphery.
And everyone knows
you cannot see noise.