shecanread

i want to taste the tired spots under his blue eyes. and feel the invisible thread connecting my heart to his that keeps us both from dying. lie to him just to make sure he believes in me and then smell the salt in his tears and dream of the freedom in the sea. and sit cross-legged and tell him all my secrets one by one with butterfly whispers juming off my lips. write him my life story with invisible words and feed him the letters while we hide under the bed like the children we used to be. stare into his palms and let him read the love notes i wrote to him in the wrinkles of my forehead and the crinkles of my lips that will never be smoothe

i wish i were a brown haired girl with bangs too long and mismatched eyes and braids so delicate that the upside-down frayed ends brushed the clouds making love to the hidden sun. i wish i were a lonely girl, telling the stars goodnight. rosy red cheeks and disfigured hands that could only feel the snow. but could touch everything. i wish i were a dying girl, who loved evil because it was real. and kissed the drunks goodbye. who married broken hearts and gangly legs and let the zoo animals free. i wish i knew i wasn't real and i wasnt asleep and that everyone forgot how to bleed. i wish i never loved anything.

if you ripped a butterfly's wings in half you'd know what my heart feels like chills from the corners of my eyelids to the callouses of well-worn fingertips. i counted down the roses left before the frost because i couldn't wait forever. and i didn't believe that my own breath was real as it crystalized in the snow like childrens tear drops and slowly died as i fell to the ground. it wasn't real, any of it. but you never took the time to send me flowers or tell me that my chapped lips looked like our faded memoirs of past romance in the winter light. when the spring comes, ill forget you.

we were a child's colored in crayon drawings. my arms outlined in black, his heart displayed prominently on his chest colored in pink. every night we would turn our lamps on and they would send beams of light back into the stars so the sunlight was never out of reach. i would lie on top of him -- my head against his chest -- and i could hear my own heart beating. his fingers throbbed as he thought of touching my face but my tears made it impossible for him to feel anything completely. we would wake up and talk about our nightmares he touched my eyelids and whispered that if we stopped believing we would stop dreaming. and then eve

i am thinking of things that don't have wings. and how the most beautiful sound in the world is a snowflake falling between a baby's parched pink lips. i want to taste that snowflake. and all the holes in the sky had to have been made by millions of people who just wanted to see the stars at night. i could cry about everything i've never missed, and how i put mascara on over and over again and it clumps my lashes together, keeping my eyes shut forever. and when i try to wipe the blackness away it leaves marks on my fingertips that look like something trying to fly away. or a rainbow of ashes in an otherwise clear sky. what about buryin

so. we flew to the park and forgot our shoes there. we carved words on the trees and wrote each other love notes with our toes in the dirt under the maple leaves. i covered my skin in twenty-thousand grains of sand and you drew all the things you had forgotten on my goose-bump covered bare arms. when our balloons ran away, we didn't miss them. they floated up and danced past the gasping trees into the clouds we couldn't reach, and every one of them made it to the sun. we didn't kiss, but you pushed my hair off my face once the stars came out. it was dark, and we tasted falling stars. they never made it to the ground, but we kept them

My dear,    I have read that a person reads with a greater awareness when they are in love with the writer.  Their understanding of nuances and potential meanings is more acute; they read between the lines, so to speak.  If that is so then it is safe to say that I love you, for I find myself reading every word you write to me again and again to find any meaning that I might have missed.  I want to know so much more than is revealed by the face value of your words.    In your letters of late I have noticed something that causes me some disturbance.  Our correspondence has been going on for some years now and your letters have always been w

there is a list in the back pocket of someone i used to know, down by the hudson river where i last remember. he told me that we should follow it, but did he notice the pitched arch of my brow when i thought he meant the note that slumbered in his father's leather wallet? but soon i saw him curl his index finger straight towards what runs through new york's urban soul, and i felt dear hudson's square miles cut through me.

My grandmother’s house smells like soap and buttered toast this morning. She has dishes soaking in the sink. The sink. She still washes her dishes in the sink. A little brown girl is watching the toast. She has the earth in her. There is mud in her veins, and gold dust in her muddy hair, and there are emeralds in her muddy eyes. Clear emeralds, held up to the sun so that sometimes they’re green and sometimes they’re gold and they change so often that eventually you forget what color they were to begin with. The little brown girl is, I think, like a tree. She is tall, nearly as tall as my grandmother, and thin. Her arms and legs

I guess I was the hallway girl who gave you narcolepsy, I ran through you at three-thousand miles an hour, I ran through you mid sentence and you could not speak as well as I wanted you to. Fall in love with me, I have loud speakers for pores and I cannot hear you under the volume of the love bite where my heart beat used to be. Hold candle light to my chest and do not burn me even though I want you to. I'm the handstand girl in your playground, in your lake in your ice-cream van, in the mirror on your wall opening and closing my summer legs as I somersault and cartwheel through your covered up skin. and I asked you qu

there is beauty here and you with your other half artist's eyes could set it down serenely while I shake struck dumb done in by distance passed so gently scenery like history repeating lacking evidence apparent I rely on insecurities practiced to perfection collected but otherwise uncalm on this uncertain and if I should declare desire for both action and its better half would you remain so silent defiantly dependable body breathing its intentions? each heartbeat arguing imitation agreeing when it comes to anything for there is would and there is will and therein lies the difference

We used to sulk. Now we shiver. We shut ourselves underneath a low-hanging ceiling. You closed the door to your pitiful poem, to your broken home, and you left the key in the lock. We stuck our silver tongues in a lake of cliches and we watched that metal wash away. The current cracked it into a century and our legions of open lesions all closed themselves and while that shining section of the river drifted away we could feel something in our mouths wet and quivering and alive. We used to shout. Now we whisper.

I want the sound that says sober in the morning but still calling crawling sideways in the slow spin of this room and I'm not always so inspired to sing so softly (out of key) but darling you inspire me such insistence on each each & every instance (in every instant) incredible but still try to keep in mind (unhardened) in heart I'm (accident) prone to stumbling stuttering and otherwise repeating all the mistakes I never wanted to make in the first place as for (this) second hold tight to right now because eventually isn't everything

My heart did not speak, but howled - 'I feel more like a tumor' I didn't want to admit it was right, instead I pushed it through tensed intercostals and carried it in a red tractor. We drove on A roads holding up traffic for miles and would not let edgy vehicles pass. It pushed back through me singing half-truths I was not ready for - 'you have hands like clamped cars and they have not yet learned to listen' the syllables sounded like symbols and I was afraid to admit it, but I was on the transport to a nuclear war with myself and we could not find enough white flags to shove between my legs, only foul words and realisations that