i forget what day it is

welcome to seattle.
when the bus leaves tacoma and heads for my destination city, i feel like i'm coming home. i've never entered the city from this side before, yet everything feels familiar, like i've seen it in my dreams. It’s possible. I have a tendency to forget what happens inside my head while I’m off doing useless things like sleeping.
I’m staying at the green tortoise hostel. It’s pretty nice, and pretty cheap. I thought I could pay using my dad’s credit card and I had to give them cash, which means I’m pretty much out of cash entirely. Which means I need to get a bank account today and get on this.
Tomorrow, I’m looking at a couple apartments and on Wednesday I’m heading up to Vancouver for a couple days.
More later. I’m off to find the bank so I can maybe buy something for dinner tonight, since I haven’t eaten since Idaho.

i don't do relationships

i don't do relationships
especially in the summertime, when heat is a constant tag-a-long
a third wheel reminder that nothing
is pretty all the time, but you
you walked into that room like the whole building must have been designed just so that room could be built and used just so you could someday walk into it
like you wrote the back story, and me?
i've never had that kind of presence.
so when we ended up outside on that hottest summer night
your arms around me like you didn't care i was sweating
licking summer off my neck like it was put there just for you
no one was more confused than i was.
i don't do relationships.
you said you didn't either we gladly shed society's ambitions
of a one night stand turned holy in the presence of a ring
still carrying remnants of lives purchased for pennies a day
i don't do relationships.

two days later we were surprised to find we still liked each other
somehow avoiding the battle we so carefully set up for
i swear you'll lose interest first. they always do.
two weeks later, i still love the way you feel inside me
the bruises you leave when you kiss me because you just
can't
let go. your hand wrapped in my hair
in an effort to release any shards of the careful style i collected myself into
wrapped in my hair so when i leave this room
the whole world knows i just got fucked but i also
like the way your hand rests easy on my hip when we're walking
the way you kiss my forehead even when i'm sweating
even when it's not sexy
and i know i told you i hated gentle, but i was lying
what i meant was i hate pretending, and that's all i've ever gotten
what i meant was i don't believe in caring
inviting heartbreak like you have one to spare in the back somewhere and
i don't believe in love, because it's only ever used me
to get to someone else.

two weeks from now, i still want your arms around me
even if i know that in two weeks more you'll leave me broken
it's worth it
because right now, i'm sweating your scent into jars for safekeeping
rubbed off on my skin from when we tried to fuck and ended up making love
and i know i'll still want it years from now
when we've both changed lovers and scents so often you're only a poem
whispering through my head on hot summer nights when the air
doesn't move
spreads itself thick over my skin in hopes you'll come back to kiss it off
two years from now
i hope you still remember the way your face lit up when i said i liked you back
shuffled shy across pavement so sun ridden it must be melting beneath us
cause it feels like i can't walk fast enough
and i'm scared i won't keep up with you
ten years from now
i hope i still remember the way your eyes crease when you're laughing
which is always
i hope i still remember the way you reached for the back of my neck
and didn't flinch in the obvious presence of august
the way you looked in my eyes before the first time you kissed me

i don't do relationships
especially in the summertime
but if rain has the secret to break the power of heat lightning
maybe mid-august sweat can dampen the edges of our histories
calm the lightning dancing between wanting you
and wanting to be hurt again just to justify my warnings
i don't do relationships.
but i want to wake up next to you
and kiss you before you brush your teeth
just to prove it doesn't matter.
i want to drive all night to spend an hour at your side and drive home again
just so i can do it again tomorrow
sleep in your shirt so i can wake up in the morning
and think that you're there
i don't do relationships, but this time
i want to.

asking for it

see, i was asking for it
lining my eyes with black like the sky already was when i called him
my bathroom mirror still says guilty in black eyeliner letters, but i
called him.
and he came, his own eyes unreadable
focused on the way i painted my lips carefully
so he would know how sweet they tasted, know i wanted him back
even though i said no
no doesn't mean anything when it comes from lips like these
hips like holy on vacation with demons
holy like it's worth the burn if the flame is beautiful enough, i swear
i was still naive enough that night to imagine
that my interpretation of ugliness matched the rest of the world's,
therefore insuring my safety
he leaned closer on the couch and i let him
even when his hand rested dead weight on my thigh
too caught up in tight jeans to notice my tears, i swear
i didn't know he wanted me.

that night i hitchhiked all over town
leaving my car in the driveway and making up stories to protect my name
and nothing else. picked up by someone's mother
imploring me to wear my seatbelt and a better bra
please, she said. be careful. can't you see where you're headed?
i said this corner is fine, waited for the next 22 year old just became a man
and wants to see what i'm hiding under my pants to badly he can barely drive
this, at least, i'm used to
and it's safer than mothers admonishing my deliberate lack of self control
so i lick my lips, slouch further in my seat
to maximize his viewing angle
how far can you take me, boy? just keep driving.

sometime around 2am i stumbled back across the threshold of reality
in the form of your voicemails, stacked up in blinking lights
wondering where the hell i am
you never could trust me to look out for myself
though you knew you could always count on tear stained apologies
pleading lips numb from time spent forced against flesh
rougher than any that could possibly belong inside me
made holy by the way it make you angry to imagine
me, inviting his touch, responding with
scratches down his back, the only skin exposed to my only method of self defense
he said god you're rough, and i said fuck
so he did
and if this is inviting
rape it's of my belief in any god that would make this my fault
because i know that curves mean sex and i got 'em
but that doesn't mean i'll fuck you back
it just means there's more to hold on to, hold me down with
like the first time you ran too fast, lost control and skinned your knee and your mother said
let it bleed.
be careful next time.

careful doesn't stick to lips slick with false security in the form of dollar store lipstick
spread a little too thin over an aching knowledge of one night's worth of future
careful doesn't stick when he's sitting a little too close on the couch
no room for no between friends and fucking
careful is as useless as imagining the world's interpretation of black eyeliner letters
on an empty bathroom mirror

and so now, i'm asking for it
twirling hair between decorated fingertips and leaning forward
into imagined invitations
losing control on purpose so the blame falls squarely on glimpses of my garter belt
my too short skirt dancing in the wind
of our interpretation of the way the world works
i'm painting my lips red enough to hide that i'm not smiling
putting my shame on display, saying
yes, i sway my hips when i walk
lick my lips when i talk
yes, my breasts are full and inviting, still
i will not hide my passion in a bottle like overpriced perfume
saved for special occasions, still
i will be loud and sexy and unafraid
to wear my heart on my sleeve and dare you to touch it
and if this is asking for it
i will never stop begging.

new england

winter is coming early this year.
my lover and i are settling in for the season
because nothing changes after the first snow
and we all know how to read this type of future
and i'm dreaming of sleeping through gray midday sunlight
wake up thinking how many years have i wasted waiting for the sun to come back
and i'm waking up aching at the blanket growing cold in the space between us
she says baby, just hang in there.
but it's dark when i leave my house for work
and it's dark when i come back home
and i miss the way the sun looks
creeping across her face on sunday mornings
like it's in no hurry
like it knows there's supposed to be a gap between sunrise
and sunset.

and everyone's old this winter
even the teenagers on the street, sucking smoke into lungs
too cold to breathe it back out
i'll quit next year i swear just make it through the winter
hard working poor people stuffing money under mattresses
saving up to buy noah's arc in the spring because
who the hell has time to build that big a boat?

and winter is coming early
i'm taking pictures to remind myself the cold is beautiful too
but there's no color here
this town too practical to ever hope for beauty
just settle in for the season
next year
i swear i'll do something.

introduction to flying

how old were you the first time you became aware of your body
not only its needs and desires but the way other people saw you
the way your body influenced the reactions of those around you
how old were you the first time you hated your body
stood in front of the mirror growing steadily toward the edges saying
please god
if you exist, make me stop growing.
i grew up submersed in this fear as my friends dipped their feet
in their inground
pool parties were the thing the summer between eighth and ninth grade
the summer that i began to curve dangerously into something
that made my friends’ mothers nervous
something that made me nervous for the first time about rejection
based on the size of my stomach, they sat
on the side of the pool, proud of their failure to fill out bikinis
while i floated on my back with my ears underwater
arms outspread like flying
fifteen second intervals of relaxation because that’s how long it took
for my stomach to float to the surface
round in a way that even my eating disorders could not erase
fifteen seconds, that’s how long it takes
for my body to reassert itself
and does it still count as flying if you only go down?

like going down on boys in the backseat of their mother’s car
ninth grade spent in that darkest corner of the parking lot
you all know it
one eye peeled for cops, for other couples who might recognize
my messy hair over the line of the car windows
and jump to the correct no never that never her conclusions
the other closed against my physical reality
shush honey, just close your eyes and make believe
and the next day they laugh when i make the mistake of smiling in their direction
nah, we never did that
she’s a dyke
and i was but scratches on your back are better than the ones on your arms
and does it still count as fucking if you only go down?

because if it does then i fucked
every man or woman placed before me
every positive aspect of my life
every ideal i ever wanted to live until i ended up
fucking my life so hard my heart stopped
for fifteen seconds
and i know because that’s how much of the song i missed
i know because i played it back later with a stopwatch
fifteen seconds
that’s how long it takes for my body to reassert itself
and does it still count as falling when you find out
there’s no bottom?

and so i live a lifetime of purgatory in one week’s time with
martha sits on two chairs at once and sags through the space in the middle
as she runs out of foodstained fingers on which to count her psych ward visits
she says the food here is better than the last place but there
they had popsicles in the freezer and you know
no caffeine allowed but you can have all the sugar you want
and sarah wears the same clothes every day and never lets go of her purse
her lipstick spreads over the course of the week
until it covers her cheeks and fingertips and edges toward her nose
she says they have to let her out for pesach
but she doesn’t know what day it is this year
and louis says he’s bob marley reincarnated
but also jesus christ
in between the spaces in his teeth i can hear his music even when he’s not singing
which is almost never
and mark isn’t crazy he’s just angry
those bastards in washington, they… they…
why aren’t we as angry as mark?
and andy just drank so much he burned out his speech patterns
one grunt means light my cigarette
two means i just pissed my pants, and i
i’m lying alone in bed after my first full meal in three months
wondering what they’re writing about my failure to socialize
wondering where i fall on their spectrum of sanity
and when i finally remember how to laugh out loud it reverberates
through the time bleached overbright hallways until everyone
marthasarahlouismarkandy we’re all laughing
making nurses count heads nervously
and does it still count as flying if it was an accident?

because that’s what i call it these days.
my accident.
it took me two days to piss the pills out of my system and regain consciousness
and three more to convince them
i didn’t mean it.
they let me go for pesach, and sarah didn’t say goodbye like the others
sarah with no accident, just well intentioned relatives
and lipstick with travel lust.
they handed me my car keys and said don’t forget
you promised you were better now.
and maybe my problem is that i’ve always been too good of a liar
because i can make you believe anything, so imagine this:
i’m flying down the road, ninety miles per hour around hairpin turns
saying if i live through this too, i might be convinced to believe in your god
even if he fucks up sometimes
just like us
and i’m learning that when it comes to flying
i do it better with two feet planted firmly on the ground
grow roots straight up my spine instead of wings to hold me aloft
and so imagine this:
i’m planting seeds, hoping for the first time
that i’ll be around next year to harvest them
building my life a solid foundation and praying to gods i never believed in
that i’ll remember to use it the next time the wind blows
and i’m learning
that the clouds up there are just floating around aimlessly
and the sky is really blue, but only from a distance
and maybe from a distance
is all i really need to know about flying
until i learn
to land.

the girl at the bar

the girl at the bar is watching me dance
with eyes so wide i wonder
that the man sitting next to her, leering down at nearly grown in tits
old enough to be her father and he leans over, staring
and i wonder that he doesn't fall in.
eyes so wide i see myself reflected from across the bar
not twenty and naked, pumping hips obscenely against this brass pole
but sixteen, and unsure of my own worth
watching girls i know are better than me in a vain attempt to learn something
pick something up, anything
as long as it's not my own.
the girl at the bar is watching me dance
and her eyes are so big i have to wonder
how i came to be the one watched.

my own eyes travel past her slender frame
long blonde hair, wavy and perfect
to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the bar
designed, i think, for just this purpose.
i am rolling my way across the stage,
catching eyes on my hips and carrying them with me
each one clutching a sweaty dollar, just waiting for a glimpse
of pubescently naked crotch,
shaved with care in my cold cast-iron bathtub.
so i miss a step, stumble over a stripe of denim
just barely covering more than their imaginations can handle
just barely coming off the end of a silver boot
a practiced flip failing in the light of her uncertain eyes,
and i watch her catch the moment, and save it
slowly building a wall around her psyche,
the one thing these men can't grope.

so i turn my attention back to the men surrounding
wiggle my hips to grab their glances, wandering across the bar
to the various sets of tits exposed to the cold damp air,
shining luridly in the neon lights of every alcohol you could want
to lower your inhibitions with.
so i bat my eyelashes when i catch them looking at me
because once she said my eyes were my greatest weapon.
bedroom eyes. come get me eyes. so i ask for it
over and over, and they stuff dirty bills against my clean skin
staining it with the filth of their uncertain desires
but the girl at the bar is watching me dance
so i weave my steps more intricately
step harder and harder until sweat runs between exposed breasts
and i pull her in. purse clutched to her almost naked body
as she tentatively steps forward, closer
and closer until i am dancing before her
ignoring waving dollar bills, and i wink.
and she winks.
and as i stand up straight and dance with all my heart
i almost don't notice the stacks of bills collecting behind me
the jukebox turned up to match my fervor because what i am watching
are big eyes through the back of her turned head
i'm watching little girl hips sway with pride instead of hunger
so i tumble my way back to the stage with a carefully practiced glide
and end my song with a wink and a blown kiss.
all in a day's work, gentlemen, i say
collecting rent and groceries balled up and crinkled
on the permanently stained floor.

and the girl at the bar is not watching me dance
eyes instead occupied searching for the next wallet
spreading open like the promise of her bare thighs
so i watch her
wrestling the demons of self-hatred and self-worth -
neither has a place on this stage.
and she watches me collecting dollar bills in greasy handfuls
knowing she's next...
and smiles.

survivor

we're all survivors here, she says casually
assuming a history i have not divulged
except, in the way i turn my eyes from the graphic moments
the way i clutch your hand tighter when they yell for me from across the street
and obviously, we can recognize each other, but i have never felt
like a survivor until this moment
sitting luxurious on her overstuffed couch, stomach full and warm
pontificating on theories of pain across the polished wood of her coffee table
jumping up now and then to refill my glass

but i have never felt like a survivor.
see, to me surviving means just hanging on
one day at a time seems bleak, and pointless
like a plane wreck with a body found, half frozen and waterlogged
attached to machines and pumped back to some semblance of life
and the news says one survivor
and what they don't say is that their life, though saved, is forever changed
stripped of their consciousness and the innocence they say we're all born with
i don't want to survive like that
each second a reminder of what i've been through
because i have been through it all, but i don't want to live day by day
merely surviving, packing meaning into labels
that describe only what i've seen, and never who i am.

at the hospital they teach us to say overdose instead of suicide
and to share our feelings and talk about what we call traumas or incidents
and it's my fourth day before i hear the word survivor
thrown in among the rest of the jargon we embrace as a filing system for emotions
that do not stay still under names
so i take my tea to the swing in the hospital courtyard
fresh air on my side of the locked door
and pollute the fading daffodils with memories altogether too vivid.
did i? i ask out loud, embracing my label of crazy
did i survive?

because she says survivor like at least we've gained wisdom
but sometimes, i don't want to be strong, or brave
sometimes i want to curl crying into your shoulder and just let go
sometimes i do not want to know that this world is usually tough, and harsh
but instead believe that once in a while the good will win
that the sun will always rise again in the morning
and it's funny how we tend to de-emphasize beauty
stow those sunrises away next to dancing without incentive
and singing because you can't hold it back
and i seem to remember laughing for no reason except the air felt good on my face
and i knew i was beautiful
i seem to remember an unaffected hug, no one searching for lust
in that dark corner of here we go again

so i join my memory back on that overstuffed couch,
draped with our collective histories
and i touch my face, my hair, arms wrapped around myself to ensure my solidity
and i say it's funny how we as a people feel the need to hurt each other
and then use it as an excuse for never being quite whole again
reveling in this label of broken, held together by the glue
of the names we take refuge in
and i think that maybe, we don't break that easy
but only bend until the pressure is such that we wish we would
although we have convinced ourselves of our own fragility
and i think that maybe i can reject that image of the plane going down
maybe
i can let my past go
instead of letting it determine my present.