this is the last night before i will finally live on my own.

i’m leaving tomorrow. i have nothing to look back at.
i never really do.

i’ve taken everything apart and down over the past few days, but just now i noticed that the calendar is still on the wall. i’ve thought about taking it down, but i kept stopping myself from doing it because it makes no sense to remove it. i still need it. i still need to know what day it is.

i don’t.
i have a phone, obviously. and i can count the days without a calendar, at least for two or three. i don’t need it. and i should have taken it down when i took away my photographs and notes and birthday cards and coasters and yorick and everything else.

but i left it. i keep leaving it. and now i’ve even recognized that i don’t need it and i still will leave it. until i’m gone tomorrow.

i’ll probably forget it now that i’ve made such a big deal about it.

an arm.

every living thing comes
full circle, and stops to eat
out of our garbage

obsessed about the frame
around the window
we took out all the nails, a pillow
for a plate of glass just like an arm,
for underneath my neck at night

the open hole for gardening,
for watching and unlocking
words we never said

underneath the moon
he breaks a bottle on his foot

i continue digging,
preparing for the dawn

later published in in/words magazine 11.1 (winter 2012).

my eyes.

at three a.m. sometimes
i stay up in the
flourescents of the
bathroom, crosslegged
on the counter
i force out blackheads,
it’s recovery,
the way at nineteen i cut
bangs to hide the
blisters back
it’s another world in there —
if my ragged
straight-chopped second-
hand-store-scissor-cut hair
is big i pretend i’m a
or a groupie in corset leather
i put on lipstick, red,
and stare into the mirror,
try to recognize myself
in my own eyes

an oldie, but a goodie, for reasons that are entirely, beautifully, my own.