You are just one breath, but as I inhale and exhale, you stay within my lungs, slowly meandering through my chest to my heart and through my blood. You travel through my aorta into my fingertips and my cheeks, my stomach and my toes, my mind and my heart. You are just one breath, but you have become all the air I need, every breath I take is you and you alone.
If love is a bridge, then I am running towards you over the strongest foundation my heart could ever create, a distance covering the deepest death my mind could ever induce. You have given me a finish line, a vision in my mind of red ribbons and fireworks, a chance at victory. I want to run towards a place where I could look you in the eye, equals, worthy of gently feeling your breath on my lips and knowing that we are alive.
I am scared. I am far more scared than I would ever admit.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.
The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
There is nothing like being so bored and lonely that you pass the enemy of time by indulging in drink, only to wake up in the middle of the night, still alone, but this time feeling the closeness of God so strongly that you nearly pass out again knowing you’re not alone anymore.
I’m a strong…
I want to get married early. I want to experience life through two pairs of eyes, two pairs of feet, two pairs of minds breathing and moving through life and death’s realities and dreams.
I am young, but you have placed within my heart an infinite amount of time and thought.
I am learning, but you have given me knowledge of everything hidden in the dark, the things that are only illuminated by the gentle glow that radiates from your eyes.
I am broken, but you have picked up my pieces and placed me together, my identity pricking droplets of blood from your hands, the mortar on which you have built the most beautiful of singularities, an envisioning of myself through your fingers.
I am lost, but you have held my hand through roadless nights, laid yourself across the unknown, a bridge leading from me to eternity, a timeless picture of ocean waves that have traveled the entire world to meet us exactly where we should be.
I want to get married early because I have already found you.
I keep having these images flash through my mind. Blinding, burning, binding. My breath catches and my heart runs and my hands tremble along the faults in the ground. I have swallowed poison and felt it grasp my throat. I have dug my fingers through concrete walls, taking root in a jungle made of ideas and fears and desires. Am I dying? Or am I being resurrected?