Let me live in you

I trace my hand down your spine

Like reading braille, my fingertips lightly pressing each vertebrae

Feeling for the place, the spot, where I am.


I don’t want you to think about me.

I don’t want to live in your mind, turning over and over like waves.

Memories, images, turn to dust in the mind- they become muddled, dirty versions

of the perfect original.


I don’t want you to love me.

I don’t want to live in your heart, burning, boiling, bursting

with false perfections and idolization.

There is no place for my soul in a love potion fairy tale.


I don’t want you to desire me.

I can’t exist on your skin like a paper thin moment of ecstasy.

I am not bliss. I am fire and ice. I am teeth and tears gifted in soft tissue paper

I am not fleeting.


I want you to be moved by me.

Changed by me, altered and forever amended by me.

Let me live in your nerves, in your backbone. Let my soul ignite yours.

Let me exist in your very center, true north for the once lost boy.

So that even when you are blind to everything,

You will still be able to read me.




That’s When I Lost Faith.

When you decided that my tongue, my lips, were for your own pleasure and not to speak my thoughts.

When you pushed me too far, when I told you to stop, curled in a corner, naked and crying, and you zipped up your jeans, saying nothing.

When I leaned against you for a hug, and you slipped a hand down the back of my pants, where all my friends could see.

When I kissed you goodnight, and you pressed me into the passenger’s seat.

When you dug your finger inside of me, searching for something that didn’t exist.

When I said I wanted your heart, and you said you didn’t want to give it.

When I decided to give you what you wanted, because then, maybe you’d stay.


Fair (The Sun)

I am in a love affair with the sun.

It is a light and gentle love.

Like two teenagers who don’t quite know how to feel the consuming weight of lust, the sun and I don’t quite know how to love each other with all the light that lies between us.

Like all of the best love stories, we always reach a fervor in the summer. The sun likes to kiss my skin– leaving light peppered marks of golden stars across my body, like road maps to the heavens, like photographs of his universe.

I can’t look at my love for too long. He shines too brilliantly and while my eyes have always been strong, they are not invincible. Sometimes I wonder if he feels the same way, and that is why he must always leave me, until morning.

Our love is a deep love.

We are cut from the same cloth. My love is a star and I am made up of shards and fractions of star dust from times long ago. We need each other to survive. If we were ever parted, my soul would burst into flames.

But a love like that is never fair. It is fierce and it is passionate and it is reckless.

But it is not fair.



We were at your friend’s house…You and I were laying on the couch watching a movie while he was in the corner finishing some English assignment that was already late. I don’t remember the movie…maybe it was Zombieland. You loved that movie…and though I never asked, I always hoped that if that catastrophic virus infected the whole of America, I would be the one person you would go back for. I tended to romanticize us… I tended to romanticize everything.

I never knew if you saw me in that way- like I was special. I knew that you liked me enough to show it in small and bizarre ways- like bringing me sour patch watermelons. You left them on my desk before class the way a cat brings a mouse to the door- unexplained and yet sweet in a twisted and intimate sense.

I remember that it was dark…it was early fall and just beginning to get cold early in the evenings. I remember that we were snuggling on the couch. It had taken us an embarrassingly long time to get to that point- but isn’t that the way adolescence is? Every moment is so long…so unsure…

So powerful.

A single touch could send me into cardiac shock. I remember the moment I decided to kiss you. I wasn’t smooth. I wasn’t brave enough for gestures or formalities. I counted to three….

and I shoved my mouth against yours. And I remember that my vision left my body so that I could see us as if we were in a movie- your shocked face, vanishing into tenderness and joy as you wrapped your arms around me and kissed me back. It wasn’t a great kiss. But it tasted like potential. It tasted like possibility and uncertainty.

But what I remember…more than anything else…was that after we had shared that first, unremarkable kiss…you and I snuggled together on that couch, staring up into the skylight in the ceiling of your best friend’s living room. It was dark, but we could see the moon and stars through that glass. I said “the sky is beautiful” and you said “yeah. It is.” But I know.

I know, deep down in my core, that neither of us were looking up at the moon. We were looking at the reflection of ourselves, entwined in that foggy glass…. a handcrafted crystal ball.

Offering us a fortune that never came true.

Tiny Beads

When I was eighteen, and still in love with you, I purchased a dress..online..from a less than reputable source. The dress was a remake of a 1920s flapper dress. It was white and sparkling silver..with carefully placed sequins and fringe made of delicate, tiny beads.

I never wore that dress out of my room. I had such plans for that dress…such plans for us…to dance under the moon and the stars. I loved to put it on…to stand in front of my mirror and lightly sway my hips so that the beads rippled around my legs. I felt beautiful, regal and delicate…like an incarnate Daisy Buchanan. But I never did wear it outside the confines of those four adolescent walls.

Recently, for the first time in three years, I decided to put the dress on. I was no longer in love with you and I was afraid that it wouldn’t fit…but it did. I stood in front of my mirror, and did a quick step or two of the Charleston…not too hard…not too fast…I didn’t want to shake the tiny beads from the dress. I was afraid that their heavy weight would pull the seams from the fabric, that the tiny beads would go flying- irreparable and wasted.

But I was so tired of wearing that dress…without really wearing it. Of shaking so lightly that the beads will only ripple and never swing…of moving so carefully…so calculatingly. So I decided to put the dress on…and I decided to dance. to really dance with reckless abandon. Without you. Without the moon or the stars. With only me.

It was frightening, but as the music in my head turned louder, the beads swung more and more wildly around my thighs, and as I danced, a few of the delicate silver strands of tiny beads did swing off- like beams of light. Like shooting stars. And I was their moon. And suddenly…I had faith.


A Moment of Chaos

Sometimes I just need a single moment of chaos…of passion…of fire.

It’s like the feeling you get, standing at the top of a mountain staring down into valleys below as wind blows across your face.

It’s when you’re drunk at a party and desperately want to kiss the boy across the room.

It’s when you are standing at the edge of the high jump at your local pool and it is pouring down rain, and you leap into the water so blurry from rain drops that you can’t see your own hands below the surface.

It’s saying I love you to a lover for the first time, without knowing they will say it back.

It’s standing up and walking out in the middle of the big test.

Sometimes I just need a single moment to absolutely let go of all control. To remind myself that life is not monotony. To remind myself that I am not ordinary.

But the problem with losing control…is that the aftershock lasts longer than just a moment…and has a way of catching up to you.