Can you turn off the lights?

There are some things I can only say in the dark.

Thinks like I love you,

I'm sorry,

can we talk?

Something about looking in your eyes makes

it so hard to speak.

To spill out all that is stuck in my throat,

all the words aching inside of my chest,

to be vulnerable and open and-

no, please, I'd rather we talk in the dark.

My hand on your heart, my head

cradled on your chest-that's it,

that's safe.

The darkness swallows my words, my hopes, my fears

and every anxiety.

In the dark it's ok if you pause,

it's ok if you don't respond,

it's alright if you laugh

or get angry.

In the dark I confess;

in the light I lie by omission.

The dark will open its arms to me

even if you don't. The dark is safe, and welcoming,

and familiar. In the dark,

no one judges me and

everything I have to say makes sense.

In the dark,

you can't see me cry when my voice

trails off,

strangled by the worries wrapped tightly

around my throat.

Maybe, since we're in the dark, I just

fell asleep.

In the dark, you can't see my eyes

light on fire when I speak of the future-

a future with you.

You cannot see me smile as I think of everything

everything

that I want with you.

Since we're in the dark, maybe I'm just babbling,

half-intoxicated by the tug of my eyelids

coaxing me to sleep.

So please,

please-

can you turn off the lights?

There are some things I can only say

in the dark.

When you say my name

it makes me want to cry.

The way you hold it in your mouth

so gentle, so careful.

You love me and I hear it

in the way you whisper my name,

the way it falls off your tongue.

I've never heard my name

until now.

I have never recognized the soft syllables and the

way it rolls and ends

almost in a question.

It is not the harsh vowels of my youth

or the drawn out gaudiness of my teens.

My name doesn't sound like the short,

pressed staccato of the classroom

or the muted otherness of its

foreign sister.

When you say my name

it makes me want to cry.

It makes me want to write poems

and letters

and songs to you.

You hold my name with such reverence,

with such awe, with such care as if

it might break if you aren't careful.

So you are.

You say my name and I recognize

your voice.

Your tenor, your depth, and the beauty

with which you speak.

My name has been so broken, so used,

so common I no longer care.

But you make me want to.

When you say my name,

I want to cry

because never have I felt so precious,

so protected,

so loved.

I don't feel tainted

or bruised

or broken.

I feel fragile

and sensitive

and new

and wanting.

When you say my name

I want to cry

because you say it and I know

how much someone can

love me.

She rushed into Church, late as usual, holding down her floppy sun hat with one hand while carrying a small change purse in the other. The congregation had just begun singing the opening hymn when the rush of wind, smell of sunshine, and spring breeze carried her into the Church, earning more than a few eyebrow raises and drawn-out sighs. Wearing a hopelessly wrinkled sundress, the young woman, hardly embarrassed by her late arrival, walked quietly along the rows of pews before settling for a nearly empty one.

I say, reader, nearly empty for there was one inhabitant who seemed locked into place in that hard pew, sitting and gazing into the distant face of Jesus while the other congregants stood and sang. Her eyes looked wistful, and her white, wispy hair seemed at odds with her youthful green eyes. Her mouth was parted, almost like she was trying to sing, but for some reason couldn’t remember how.

The young woman, Nina Larson, was satisfied with the inhabitant’s appearance, and so she set about sliding into the pew and joining in the tune of “O, Sweet Jesus Come” as nonchalantly as possible, carefully glancing at the older woman to see if she, too, would give her a judgmental glare. But the woman didn’t move, and Nina was grateful. At least in her heart, she could imagine that someone understood.

Throughout the entire hour-long service, Nina allowed her mind to wander. She thought of the woman, who remained unmoving, seemingly locked into place. Who was she? Why did she appear so sad? Nina tried to join hands with the woman during the Our Father, but the woman glanced down hopelessly at her thin, worn hands, her face flushing almost in shame. Unfazed, Nina continued to think. Maybe this lady was a germaphobe, or maybe she had a disease. Nina believed the woman had an interesting story to tell, and it was all she could do not to take out her camera and start snapping photos of the woman, her hands, her eyes, and her snowy, cloud-like hair.

By the end of the service, the woman had hardly moved, while Nina’s energy had been crackling like electricity the entire time. Just as the congregants rose once again for the closing hymn, a spark seemed to materialize in the woman’s eyes, and as the people began to sing “Hallelujah sing Him Praises”, the woman began to sing “O, Sweet Jesus Come”, and Nina smiled, all bright and happy-she remembered! But soon, Nina’s joy was overshadowed by the woman’s abrupt silence, as she realized she was singing the wrong hymn, and Nina thought she saw a flood begin to rise in the woman’s eyes.

Poor thing, she thought. Poor woman.

At the end of the service, everyone who walked past the woman gave a half-trying smile and a goodbye.

“See you next Sunday.”

“Goodbye, sweetie.”

“Beautiful singing, Eugenia.”

The last one made Nina flare in anger, even though the congregant hadn’t meant it as a jab. Realizing his mistake, he hurriedly apologized and walked quickly away. Nina remained seated this entire time, trying to gauge more about the woman but gaining nothing but her name- Eugenia.

It sounded musical to Nina, and it easily flowed across her lips as she greeted the woman for the first time.

“Good morning, Eugenia! Ms., I mean. My name’s Nina-Nina Larson-I’m new here in town. Is somebody coming for you?” Making sure not to embarrass the woman again by offering her hand, Nina politely touched the woman’s shoulder as she spoke. The woman gazed up at her, attempting a small, sad smile.

“My friend will be here shortly”, she said, indicating the now open Church doors.

“Well, why don’t I wait here with you?” Nina asked cheerfully. She thought about the woman’s story, what her life might be like. Maybe she’s a mother. Yes, a mother. With five kids, and a husband who left when they were young. Maybe that’s why she looked so sad.

You see, reader, Nina loved to try and figure out people’s life stories. Of course, she was almost never correct. But she could always pick up on the threads of people’s emotions and start sewing out their true nature. Like Eugenia. She was indeed sad and she was, indeed, forgetful.

But for right now, Eugenia was content with being happy-not permanently joyous, as there is a difference-but happy with the young, vibrant, vivacious young woman at her side.

Trembling,

Wondering if it is worth it to write my soul out.

The pen drips ink,

Hovering, waiting for the scratch

Of writing to commence

It never comes.

My heart is locked up, guarded against

Letting people know.

My weaknesses

My desires

My pain.

I drop the pain, the ink splattering

All over the creamy, blank page.

And wouldn’t you know

The ink blots

Already spell out my

story.

The dirt caked under your nails

Is sacred.

Can’t you feel it?

The pulsing heart of

Life, lived in all things.

This rushing water, flooding the grassy fields-

It is holy.

Holy, raw, and natural,

recipient of the elements, giver of life

and courser through

Nature:

You, beautiful person,

with liquid gold in your brown eyes,

Shimmering chestnut hair-

You are

sacred. Bound to this teeming

mass of life called earth,

called to union with this

dirt, and that

pulsing water, and your

own, living being. You who are created

are beautiful,

an untouched song played to the cadence of the mountain echoes.

We are holy,

we are sacred, for we are created in

union with the earth,

and we create

life.

Love eternal

She wrote into the stars

And onto the palm of her hand.

Sending a soft caress on the tail

Of a breeze,

A wind to the heavens.

Written in her own flesh, scarred already

from false love-

To the moon and back, for always,

Mine.

She laughs wetly at her own marred flesh,

tracing the letters carving valleys on her arms,

hips, hair, neck,

Back,

feet. Tracing the lines and their lingering sorrow.

Love eternal.

She wrote it into the stars

and onto the palm of her hand

because they are hers.

Love eternal-to herself-a real promise,

inscribed under heaven’s gaze,

to love her own flogged and mutilated body.

And soul.

The breeze returns, gentle as ever,

Stirring tendrils of her hair as if

They were fallen leaves.

Eternal.

It’s frustrating. Waking up one day and who decides that

Your mind will be so fucked up.

Thinking in numbers but also working hard not to

And then being upset when the numbers don’t add up.

It’s wanting attention and wanting to be ignored at the same time

Wanting someone to ask if you’re ok but getting angry when they do.

For months everything fine, average. And then, one day a total

Breakdown.

Sobs, shaking breaths, self-hatred, wanting to cut the fat off with a

Knife. I hate myself, can’t stand mirrors, everything is skin

And white lumpy fat. No beauty

No potential, no hope. The journey forward of five years brought

Back to square one, crying on the bottom of the shower floor,

Not being able to see anything except those god damn numbers, the weight

And the food and the sizes and everything. No beauty.

No hope.

You don’t know what it’s like until you’ve lived it

Breathed it for every damn day since you were twelve

Had it perched on your shoulder, judging everything you do, even if it’s not eating,

But talking, dating, laughing, living. No safe place to escape. Maybe a

Reprieve for a bit, but it always comes back. It’s like a personal skeleton in your closet

(No pun intended) that eats away at your life

Little by little

Until every thought is not your own and you can’t really remember the before part of your life,

Can’t remember who you used to be, or is it who you really are?

Anyways, you can’t pretend you know. Or say you understand. You don’t.

And you really don’t want to. So continue pitying it if you want, looking down or feeling sorry, whatever the hell floats your pathetic psychobabble boat. But don’t EVER pretend you know what it’s like to have

it.

I am not

what you see, or hear, or read about.

No one is, you know.

I am

B

R

O

K

E

N

but I am not weak. I am

hing

urt

but I don’t need your comfort. I am me.

I can do this thing, this pitiable and desperate task called

living. Even when death knocks,

I will not go without screaming, my hands glued to the doorframe.

Even on those days you see me

alone. Crying,

mascara running, breaths

uncertain. Know that i will not let this defeat me. I will challenge

this thing called

life. These tears are

scars

and these moments of falling

A

P

A

R

T

are my armor. I am a

warrior. I will not be overcome.

I will fight

because i have learned why

life is worth living. It is for the

moments of strength

when I peel myself off the dirty floor, covered

In snot and tears and raw skin and torn nails

And decide to stand up and look

in the

Mirror. At me.

Take a hard look.

Nude descending a staircase, yeah right.

I would never. Not even if I was alone, at night,

And you paid me. I hate my body. I can’t even get dressed without crippling anxiety and

Well what if.

Let’s see-nude descending a staircase. For me?

Puckered and sculpted calves leading up to thick, full thighs. You can see the cuts of muscle

Though they aren’t professional thighs. Then, a beautiful set of hips, they sit there. Clear curves protruding from the rest of my torso. They aren’t strong, hard muscle. That’s funny, hips aren’t meant to be that way. Mine are no different-thick and soft, beautiful grips for a man who will love me someday. Then my stomach, my middle, my torso, my most hated spot in all the world, my hell. But it is fitting for my body-not too big and not too small, but just right. Soft yet shapely, contouring a bit with some muscle underneath, but not perfect. Perfect for me, perfect for eating and living and perfect for descending nude down a staircase. Beautiful. Rising up to my breasts, which I always think are too big, too fatty and awful looking. But they sit stately and ornate, the right size when you take me all in. Not too big or too fatty or even awful. They are just breasts, you know. And then my collar bone and neck. I’ve never really noticed them. They kind of just sat there, but now-now they are my crown, small jewels that you don’t notice on a swarovski bracelet until the light catches them. Defined collar bone but not pronounced, with a swan-like curve rising over it to support my oval face and waterfall curls. My face is the first thing you’ll look at when I descend nude on a staircase. More likely, my eyes. Almonds with milk chocolate, warm brown eyes topped by arched, dark brows begging you to ask me anything. My nose is too big, isn’t it? But here it compliments my face, it’s romanesque bridge making me appear regal, even. And my smile lines and bags under my eyes, well, where are they? They disappear in my blush at being nude descending a staircase, my fanning eyelashes, and my dazzling smile. You see those bumps and acne scars on my forehead but in all this arrayed presentation you need a little texture to the skin, a little sign that you are raw, untouched, because you are real. Atop my head is the bee’s nest-I hated my curly hair and always wanted it out of the way, but now I see how it falls down my back, over to the side, gracefully. A gorgeous brown with honey colored highlights naturally corkscrew into waves gliding down my bare skin. You would like to see it untreated, unbound like this. I know I would. So a nude descending a staircase. But we are descending and I am a human being so you see the back too. Mine is long, with that graceful curve of my spine that seems to be so aesthetically appealing to artists of ages old and new. It is a natural flow to the base of my spine, where my bottom curves in two full, muscular hills of flesh. I worked hard here and you can see the proof. I might have once glanced at the feel of the skin-some cellulite dotted the curves, and hated them. But now? Now I love them. They are mine and they are quite a thing to show off, it we’re all being honest. So I walk, down those stairs, timid but confident in this machine that is my body. Strong, and soft, and built to perfection because it is mine. I accept this. I will do the unthinkable, I will be the nude descending a staircase.

And you won’t have to turn the lights off, or pay me. I’ll do it for free. I’ll do it when the sun is shining. I’ll even do it with an audience.

Isn’t nakedness beautiful?

“How are you feeling?” I asked him as he blinked open his eyes. Well, one eye anyways. The other was covered with a bandage that wrapped around his head, hair, and part of his face. The other half was bruised a greenish-purple. I thought of a lavender plant.

“Ughnmmmdf” he answered in response, his eye still half closed. Patient feeling...poorly I wrote on my report sheet.

“All right Sleeping Beauty, nice to meet you. My name’s Bernadette. I’ll be looking after you as you’re recovering.” When I had finished talking, his one eye opened all the way, fully alert now. I smiled my best knock-your-socks-off-you-were-wounded-I-know-it-hurts smile at him. He began to reach for me, then groaned in pain, mumbling incoherently all the while.

“Yes I know, I’ve quite a way with the gentlemen, haven’t I? Relax, sir, let’s check your-oh sir, please don’t, you’ll only make the pain worse!” I said as I flattened him back onto the cot after an attempt on his part to sit up. He kept trying to reach for my clipboard, my hand, anything. Poor thing wasn’t the first to do so. Seeing a female face, warm and comforting after weeks of battle often cheered them for a while. But this one was a fighter, I could tell. Perhaps I reminded him of someone he knew. A storm cloud darkened my thoughts as I thought of all the trials this particular man had gone through… a bullet to the head, for Pete’s sake. The poor man’s mental health might need a check up.

“Nnnnn!” He spoke firmly through gritted teeth as he vainly struggled against my firm hold on his shoulders. I put my hands on my hips and mock gasped.

“Now Mr., didn’t your mother teach you any manners? Don’t tell a nurse no, especially when she’s trying to help you!” He succeeded in knocking my pencil out of my hand, onto the dirt floor of the tent. Hmmfing as I turned around to pick it up, I heard the faintest whisper, so soft I could’ve dreamt it, say “Bernie.”

I froze. My papers clattered to the floor, my pen all forgotten by now. My blood was pulsing, hot and fiery with hope, with anxiety.

“What did you just say?” I whispered, my back still facing the patient. I turned to face him then, and through his exhaustion, with extraneous effort, I saw him open his eye fully to look at me. The color of a murky pond, and I was swimming in it now, swimming as the tears filled my eyes.

“Oh, Harry!” I stumbled over to him, kneeling next to him. I took his face firmly between my hands and began kissing it everywhere I could-his forehead, his eyebrows, his eyes, nose, cheek, chin; dozens of little kisses, selfishly I lavished them upon my wounded, broken, lovely Harry.

Oh Harry! He was alright, he was safe, he was here. Nothing mattered more to me than giving kisses to my beloved, kissing through my tears. At last, I came to his lips, the beautiful bows now swollen and rough.

I didn’t care. I kissed them anyways.

I was gentle because I knew he was exhausted, but selfish me had to know he was real, that those were his lips I was touching with my own. Tenderly, I brought his head to the hollow in my neck, cradling him to me as best I could in our positions. How could I have ever doubted? He’d said he’d come back; why did I not trust? Love never stops being. I had my love now, with me. I wanted to shout to God for joy, cry from the mountaintops my thanks. Harry was home. Harry was safe, in my arms.

“I’m so sorry, Harry. I’m sorry I didn’t know it was you-how could I be so stupid? Oh, Harry I love you. I love you, and you can never make me go away. And I’m sorry for this-” I softly touched the bandage over his eye. “I love you, Harry Ludlow. I thought I would never see you again, and now-” my voice hitched, and I heard a low, soothing mumble from against my chest.

Harry’s eye was closed, but he reached up with one of his hands to grip my wrist and bring it to his heart. I felt his pulse, Harry’s blood running an inch or two beneath my fingers. Oh, my poor Harry! He looked as though he had been run over by a tank and then pulverized with shrapnel. I had exhausted him. War had exhausted him.

I wiped my nose on my sleeve and tried to brighten up my eyes.

“Hmm. Looks like you’ve missed me, yet all you want me to do is check your pulse? Well, it’s definitely not the welcome I’d pictured. Guess I better go see how the other guys will do it…” I snarked, my usual self sneaking through as I dashed away tears.

Though his eye was still closed, Henry smirked, his mouth tugging up at the left corner just like I loved and remembered. I readjusted his head on the pillow, looking up sheepishly to see if anyone around had noticed us, then realizing I didn’t give a flying goat’s arse what they thought. I fussed over Harry for a minute, then told him I had to go check on the other Don Juans in the tent, but he still gripped my hand possessively. I probably could’ve ripped it away (seeing as he was currently...incapacitated a bit) but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. He stroked my hand with his thumb and then weakly brought it to his lips, brushing a kiss onto my fingers. I don’t know how long we sat like that; it felt like seconds. But by the time Harry fell asleep, the sun was already setting in the sky. I silently pulled my hand away from his, breaking my heart all over again. Pull yourself together, Bernadette. It’s just for a few moments.

As I went around the tent, making sure the other guys hadn’t died or anything, all I could think of was Harry. How much pain he’d felt when the bullet hit his face. How awful for him to see his comrades fall, hear their screams, breathe in the noxious fumes of a gas he didn’t even know. I wondered if he’d missed me, if he loved me back...in that way. Then again, maybe he was delusional or maybe he was still upset with me.

I was bold enough though, thanks to my mother’s English blood, to sit next to him until he awoke. For hours, I was his personal care monitor. I went without dinner, only leaving the tent to give my reports to the head nurse and let her know I’d take the night shift in tent 3.

Tent 3. Harry’s tent. I knelt as comfortably as I could on the dirt floor and stroked his hair, trying to reassure myself that it was alright, ok. Eventually, my adrenaline and excitement waned in response to my fatigue. Laying my head down near his shoulder, I fell asleep, my hand still on his hair.

I woke up to gray dawn light filtering in through the cracks of the tent. My legs had fallen asleep from my awkward position on the floor, and I was sure-absolutely positive-that my nurse frock was brown all over from the dirt. Great.

Harry was still sleeping, and just by looking at his face and worn out body I felt exhausted all over again. I kissed his brow, standing ram-rod straight when Frankie walked in. Geez, I thought. How many times was that now that I’d almost had a heart attack because of her? Three? Four? My wheels in gear, I left Harry to go find some food. I was starving, and hungry nurses are notorious in horror stories told by patients.

I was still so tired, but nowadays I was used to it. We were terribly understaffed, or maybe the wounded department was just overstaffed. Whatever the case, less and less people were available for nursing duties, so nonstop shifts had become normal for me. It was barely five in the morning, from the looks of the sky. In the east, golden sunlight peeped through the ever-present clouds, while some bright, loyal stars peppered the western bowl of indigo.

As I exited the tent, I grabbed a heel of bread to munch on. Carrying my paperwork to the HQ tent, I set it down in front of Caroline. She glanced up at me, narrowing her eyes.

“What? Is it my face?” I quickly ran my hand over my cheek. Dirt was the new rogue these days.

“No...but what have you been up to? Hmmm?” Her eyes sparkled at me knowingly.

I smiled and my heart fluttered. I leaned over the table and mischievously whispered in her ear, “Harry’s here.”

Harry was home.