I have survived a lot of things:
High school, hormonal acne, his weight on top of me.
I’m either falling in love or running away from it,
fire constant in my brain, staying even after I am left.
This is not a poem that demands pity. Someone told me once
that you begin to be afraid of the person you love.
While my parents argue loudly in the room below mine,
I paint my toenails. I read the fashion magazines I horde
under the bed. Blow dust off of snow globes. Shake them.
I recite poems sitting on the window ledge, let down
my long hair. Three cups of coffee or don’t bother,
or go back home, or stay in bed. Sometimes, but only most
of the time, taking care of myself is difficult. I don’t always
ask the right questions. I forget to take out the trash because
I tell myself that my boyfriend will do it. I don’t have
a boyfriend. When my hands start to shake, I hold them.