20 October 2011 § 1 Comment

if the architect of my dreams
were a bipolar eating disorder
she’d run miles for dinner,
and for breakfast, stand still.

behind the scenes,
she’d sketch trampolines
on post-it notes,
swirl her smile into
every spiralspring she could wring life into,
and toss them like flower petals,
sing them to the sea, with

‘he loves me’s’, and ‘i love me nots’.
she loves me.
i love me not.

todos somos obras de arte – en progreso.
we are works of art
in progress.
our picassoface says common sense,
and our melting clocks are missing hands.

she could still jump, though,
so she does:
once for every pound of her
she thinks is a mistake.
so she does eighty-seven backflips a second,
waiting for her weight to show up and say
i’m okay now.

when it didn’t, she’d get a text.
says love is out to lunch
with god.

over bloody ex-virgin marys,
they doodled a crucifix
of what-would-happen-ifs
on a napkin, folded it into
an origami swansong of
we binged on possibility
instead of triggers, if
she loved herself,
even when her thighs touch,
and wouldn’t it be neat if
when I said ‘I understand,’
I admitted that I didn’t believe that

Love conquers only mattresses and mirrors, y’all.
and that’s just on the good days.

because some things don’t break
when you throw rocks at them,
like people who talk because
they never learned how to listen.

now, she kisses only though
car windows
tinted, deprives sleep
of her essence, and
turns off her cell phone
at mealtimes.

as for me, I’d rather race my scars
toward a self-conscious sun
than be standing here with you.

I might be standing on a ledge,
but I’m on the brink of peace,
and still breathing –
’cause there ain’t no way to
battle myself without breaking.

so instead of jumping,
let me just wake up,
and be here
with you.


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