my fingertips are always cold.
when I press them
to my face
or tuck them
under my chin
they are chips of ice.
the warmth feels good,
and i can breathe again.

it squeezes
the meaty flesh
between my lungs.

that *****
that tissue
those cells
electric with these
waves of nervousness
wrapping their tendrils
and gripping, too tightly.

is it nervousness?
when i am nervous,
i know what to do with it.
i know how to use it.
this is not nervousness.

anxiety took root in my heart
years ago
and it still clutches
at the space where i
imagine my soul to be.

gentle
is a word that could
describe me.
maybe if you knew me.

but do not take
my quiet voice
my soft eyes
my drifting hair
my light fingertips

for weakness.

everyone's soul
has that one space,
that one territory
where it unquestionably
undeniably
belongs.

mine is simply the stage.
nothing can stir my heart
quite like the way
the warmth of the stage lights
the scent of paint and sawdust
the rustle of velvet curtains
the rolling murmur of the audience
the firmness of the stage, tacky with masking tape
can.

i was made for the stage.
only there am i certain.
missteps? mistakes? you ask
i laugh, a private laugh.
no, i reply. improv. adaptability.
no matter if my tongue, if my foot, if my face slips
i am standing on a stage.
this is my territory.

you would do best
to not challenge
underestimate
my power
when
i
stand
on my stage.

you have no idea.
it's funny to me
how you have no idea.

i've spent exactly five hundred and ninety-nine days
denying any semblance of romantic notions.
i've spent exactly one year, seven months, three weeks, and a day
with a fragment of my soul
in love with you.

five hundred and ninety-nine days ago,
i had no idea.
(much like how you have no idea, even now)
i didn't even think
i just knew-
i wanted to know you.
i wanted to be your friend.
i wanted to be near you.
a crush never occurred to me!
but that fragment of my soul;
something tells me it knew this whole time.
it knew and it wanted to reach out to you.
so i've followed you
i've sought you out from crowds
(not really knowing that i was searching
for you, specifically)
this whole time.

maybe i should clarify but
when i speak of denial
i speak of mine.
i spent these eighty-one weeks and a day
telling myself i only wanted to be your friend.
there was simply no way, in my mind
that i wanted to hold you
kiss you
love you.

i still don't want to kiss you.
not right now.
but i would love to lean into your side,
and curl an arm around your waist
and hide my face in your neck.

it's 6:45 in the morning
     and you wish you could remember his name.

we're driving home.
it's raining and
car lights shine through rain-splattered windshields
like angry neon brushstrokes.

sometimes i think i can see
every single color of the rainbow
when i stare at white streetlights.
sometimes those chromatic hallucinations
make me think
of all the beauty trapped
under our skins.

water splashes under the car's tires.
the sound lulls me to drowsiness.
how long has it been, i wonder,
since i last fell asleep in a car seat
unaware and unworried.

the sky is dark.
it darkened hours ago.
i can still feel its warmth on my skin,
if i close my eyes, and think of noon.

if i breathe in,
moisture fills my throat and my lungs
and everything becomes just a little clearer.

i live for rainy days.