I Cover the Waterfront

Sunday Morning Put-On

Softly, as in a Morning Sunrise

Ballon de peut-être

Caravan

Django

You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To

My Ideal

Charlotte hasn’t eaten in three days,
her body waning like tree branches and swaying in the wind.
When I ask her how she ended up here,
she hands me a manufactured smile. 
Says she was here just two weeks ago 
and has returned more –
I don’t tell her I still have not gotten away from the
idea of killing myself.
I don’t have to say anything.

 On the first day, the girl from down the sterile, while hall 
whispers in Charlotte’s ear that she is beautiful.
Charlotte’s face turns red like the sun, tiny fists slamming on the table,
a child’s tantrum.
The girl from down the hall won’t take it back and 
Charlotte is crying like she’s being bullied— 
I wonder if I hated myself that much when I was thirteen,
A “can’t gaze in the mirror” kind of hatred.

 And Charlotte - she is so beautiful – 
I want to wrap her in my bone marrow 
so no one can get to her,
let the burgundy inside me teach her about desire,
and how she owns it.
I want to take her by those bony shoulders,
shake her from side to side, scream that she’s way too young 
for this.
Charlotte is like the little sister I never had and never wanted.

On the second night we lay in our beds,
giggling like preteens at a slumber party. 
When the nurse on shift does head checks,
she peers in and frowns,
tells us to shut up the hell up
so we laugh some more. 

On the third night Charlotte never comes to bed.
I can hear her arguing with the nurses,
they’re shouting, “It’s been three days, Charlotte! Just have some water.”
And she is screaming,
the hospital halls vibrating in pain, echoing her breaths;
I can hear her empty stomach and I need to save her. 
But they won’t let me leave my room.
They won’t let me leave my cold bed.
My strait-jacket sheets.

But she won’t drink the water, 
won’t take her medication.
Says she took 15 Motrin and she doesn’t know why.
But now Charlotte is here and she isn’t eating.
Her panic rests on my chest when she cries into me 
We lay hand in hand,
fingers crossed like broken promises,
her tears are an ocean on my shirt,
salty and silent.

We are both in hysterical silence – 
and I never see her again. 
I hope with every ounce of my being she is still alive 
and I pray with every pound of my soul Charlotte knows she is beautiful.


Skin and Bone Marrow

I'm a seventeen year old teenager who pretends she can write.

Skin and Bone Marrow

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