Take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me
Clean Slate

Believe it or not there are days when I don’t feel like a worn pair of socks

There are days when the happy song of birds is the first noise I hear, and I don’t scoff at the snow white cliché

Days where blue light floods in through my window overtaking the grim

Crisp air slips into my lungs despite the allergy-caused inflammation

And I touch my face to find a misplaced smile I don’t remember leaving there

These are the days my slate is whipped clean

Every part of me I want to hide away in comforters and thrift store sweaters is shiny and brand new 

Each mistake is understandable, affordable; my life doesn’t feel like a spectacle on these days

You are one of those days

Hands greasy from bike chains and my stains you make me feel like the birds are singing

And with you, it is a cliché

It’s holding hands in the park and not checking over my shoulder for girls with tongues pointed like sniper riffles

It’s pulling back the curtains of curls I use as a security blanket to reveal the toothy smile the condemned aren’t allowed to wear

Skipping and singing and dancing in the rain, or falling in the rain while you dance I am untouchable every day since you let me start over