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

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.

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.