My body sighs when I wake up. Her feet move without prompting on a journey that leads us to the cold measurements of my worth. The first light we see each morning is not that of a  blushing pink sunrise. It is angry and red. It screams at us to wake up from a nightmare we are creating.

She will tell me she’s sorry, that she will change. I’ll tell her it’s alright. We both know I’m lying. I will take us down familiar paths hoping they lead us to different destinations. She will obediently follow, acting as a vessel for my frustration. She is the parchment I use to map out the ugliest parts of my mind.

I will tell her I’m sorry. I wish it could be different. It will be different. She will whisper that it doesn’t have to be this way. I will pretend to believe her.

I will try to love her over breakfast and carefully clothe her in layers meant to protect her from the harsh judgements of others. I tell her that someday the sun will know all the parts of her. She wonders how many parts will have been lost by then. I tell her just a few more.

All day I will twist her into molds that she was never meant to fit. She will do her best but it won’t be enough.

She will ache for rest and care and my thoughts will be screaming. We will stretch and sweat until they are quiet.

We will sit in the dark together, under so many covers and layers we aren’t sure where we end and they begin. I will feel the weight of myself in the mattress and she will apologize. I’ll tell her we can try again tomorrow. She will hope that tomorrow never comes.

I want to love her. I do. When I see her I want to welcome her with open arms and offer her the world, but I can’t. I don’t see a single beautiful thing about her, all I see are her flaws. I know she didn’t do anything to deserve me picking her apart like this, she didn’t even come close to deserving it. And yet, here we are. Again. I’ve made her my punching bag for every bad thing in my life. She doesn’t like it now but in the end we will both benefit with the results. So in conclusion to my body, I hate you yet I love you.

Will you be my Valentines?
                                                                                                                 No.


Oh, okay.

You rip my heart out of my chest,
Pink ruffles and all,
And crumble it up.

You swish swish swish it into the trash,
You feel so powerful.

It lays there,
Bottom of the barrel,
Crumpled and beat black and blue.

The pink ruffles are now zig zag bright red.
It wheezes out in desperation.

I scramble to the bin,
Trying to scavenge the leftover pieces.

I pick through the trash,
I look ridiculous,
But I can fix this.

My fingers run over broken glass,
Paper, and even banana peels.

I find it,
The last remnants of my beating heart.

It’s still crumbled up,
But this can work.

I start from image.

I steam press it,
Whisper it sweet nothings,
And kiss it back to life.

It beats.
It beats,
It’s beating.

My heart is alive once more.

Will you be my Valentines?

Yes, heart, I will.

I never know how important I am,
Or how much I mean to anyone.
I never know that I'm loved,
Or that I matter far more than I think.

I spend each day before a sheet of glass:
Pinching my sides, ******* in, sticking out, padding down- not looking into my soul, not seeing its beauty, forever unknowing that I am a gift.

My green-gray eyes are a filter for reality;
All I see is a black and white promise:
Of pretty equaling worth,
Of attention equaling happiness-

Envy feeds me better than food.

I wish
Whenever I entered
My washroom of judgement,
I could look in the mirror
And question:
“Who is that handsom SOB?”

Instead,
I think of 6 random dudes.
Three look better than I do,
And three look worse,
But the latter all have girlfriends.

The day doesn't start

When the first bird starts to sing

When warm rays crawl into the room through thin curtains,

When the breeze changes its direction,

When the coffeeshop around the corner spreads sweet smell into my window,

When the alarm goes off or the telephone rings,

When the first train leaves the station,

When fancy dressed people rush wherever they go,

When the golden chariot rides the crystal bridge,

When the primal deity dies and gives way to a new born Christ,

When the bell tolls for a Sunday mass,

When the mullah cries out from his ivory tower,

When everybody gathers around the Market place,

No, the day only starts

When you open your eyes.