The Pianist

At night his fingers found keys
In the bones of her back
He would play the notes thoughtlessly
As she lay half asleep
Finding the music she had hidden
Beneath her skin. 

Every pain is a little different
A unique signature to each bruise
No scrape can duplicate
The headiness of fever burning through
My skin identifiable and separate from
The ache of loneliness in heavy bones.
Yet how similar every happiness is
This tightness in the chest repeats
A breathless sensation caused by
The crescendo of waves on
A cloudless, windy night beneath
Perfectly spherical moon echoes—
The shiver of cold sand between
My toes, snow sliding down the hood
Of my coat, and your fingers
Tracing the scar on my cheek. 

Anonymous asked: Your poetry is beautiful, simple but so loaded. Lovely.

Aw, thank you! I need to write more but I haven’t been feeling the drive.

I was fifteen when my parents let me start riding the subway alone. They never would have let me out of the apartment unsupervised if they could have seen the fevered imaginings my head housed. I used to play a game where I would sit down next to boys and pretend we were dating.
Sometimes I’d sit next to boys with a crowd of friends alongside them and play the jealous girlfriend in my head. I can’t believe he’s ignoring me. He cares more about his friends than about me! I’d get especially angry if I saw him looking at another girl. Other times I’d slip into empty seats next to boys sitting alone and imagine with each jerking motion the train made I would finally have the guts to lean my head against his shoulder. But no, we aren’t ready for public displays of affection. Maybe after we’ve been going steady for a couple of weeks.
I sat next to tall boys and short boys, round ones and thin ones, pale and dark, spotty boys hiding behind spectacles and bold boys in name brand tees and the Nikes my Dad said would cost me a year’s allowance to get. I tried them all on for size, assuming a different character with each date we had. 
My favorite boys always had books with them. Some were a little older and the titles seemed so foreign and clever. I’d lean as far back in my seat as I could and read over their shoulders. I always read the words in “his” voice—imagining that he was reading each line personally to me. I still remember whole passages from novels I never checked out of the library.
I didn’t have my first boyfriend until I was 19, but in my own way I had dated dozens.

Anonymous asked: When you say "Uncharted", are you referring to the Sara Bareilles song? It's very good.

no…the video game…

You surprised me
In my solitude
Sneaking inside with
Skeleton key to
Secret lock finding
Chambers in my heart
Hidden beneath trap door
Unraveling each riddle
How is it that you navigated
The labyrinth inside
As if you held a map?

With every utterance
I feel myself shrinking
The whole of me
Becoming less and less
Visible as this
Chatting/babbling/gabbing gamine
Takes my place
Words on display
From painted lips and
Drooping lids that seem
So at ease
Yet I have retreated
Into some dark mind’s
Corner quietly waiting
For the stream of lexeme
To cease from cascading
Out of the mouth
Some newer, bolder being
Has temporarily possessed. 

I know you’ve found
Limitations in love before;
Your imagination must
Be stretched, my dear
Your mind must grow again
To accept the possibilities
Of the love I am willing
To sacrifice upon your altar. 

A Vision

I am revealed
In the eyes
Not by secrets
Hidden behind lids
Disappearing with
Blink or wink
Nor pupils growing—
Showing need and
Desire but rather
Lingering gaze
An inability
To look away
But when you’re
Within my sight
How’s a girl to
Control her eyes?

Please tell me more
About my knobby knees
Ask me again if the scars
Will fade or forever mar
The porcelain of my legs
I don’t mind the attention
They seem to draw
Even from supposed defects
I love these legs that bear
My weight with little complaint
They’ve climbed mountains and
The twisting steps of Pisa’s
Leaning tower, endured
Bug bites, bramble scratches—
More scrapes than I could name
So tell me again about
Some perceived flaw in their
Shape or coloration
Their beauty was never defined
By visual margins.