st. vincent's getting to know you

A man flirted with me at lunch the other day.

He asked me what do I do?

I must be pretty, I thought, if he likes me in this hospital gown that ties on the side.

But I am not thinking of him.

I am thinking of you.

You, whose number I had scrawled on my arm when they took me away.

Then, I took your heartbreak and made it new.

I write poems in my jail cell.

I smell like peaches.

My lips taste like strawberries.

My bra is bright red,

and my jeans are cuffed at the ankles.

I am the gentle summer.

I am ferocious in all my glory.

I am a little black dress, soft at the curves.

I am a hand resting on my heart.

There is a leaf in my hair

and my shoes are dirty,

In the evening, I smoke flowers to relax.

I cannot sleep otherwise.

I like taking the train,

I like silent drives,

and I like walking in the sun.

I am mauve-colored lipstick.

I am weekly therapy sessions,

I have survived and endured endlessly.

I am not who or what you think I am.

I was not made by you.

I will move, on and on.