Dream. Do. Die.

January. Nervous. Your birthday. What do I buy you? Novelties. Jokes. My hands and feet are too cold against your skin. I use your skin to warm them. I draw on your naked flesh. Dragons and princesses and evil wizards Angels and devils and all the stories you tell me. A party. We’re both drunk. A night that I do not remember Except we fell asleep together and woke up together And I loved you.

February. Flowers and chocolates. Roses and lilies. You like the classics and I tease you about it. I’m sick and struggle with school. You urge me, “One more semester.” I drop out. I am weak and not good enough. “You’re everything I asked for.” You decide. “Let’s get a snake.” It’s a twenty year commitment. Can you promise me twenty years together? “Of course.” And so we get a snake. And I love you. March. Living together with roommates. Third month in progress. I am depressed and you are bipolar. We struggle. “It won’t always be easy.” It isn’t. You were right. We pull through. Your hands stroke and tug my hair. We try new things. Even with your attentions I feel lonely. We get drunk and I bemoan that you see me bent over a toilet. You swear that I am beautiful even still. I start writing you love letters Because I am terrified to tell you in person How much I love you. I hide them between the pages of a journal. I say “With all my heart.” You say “That’s an awful lot.”

April. I bring you and our roommates into A celebration of Ostara. They mock me And I end the celebration early. We go about our night as usual And when we go to bed And I put marker to your skin You tell me that the celebration was beautiful. I feel less sad and more sad somehow. I write you love letters that I hide away. You bring me flowers And struggle with work. Your cheekbones are familiar beneath my thumbs Your hands a comfort on my skin. I help you with your frustrations But do not dare voice mine. I say “With all my heart.” You say “And all my soul.”

May. For my birthday You surprise me with a camping trip that I must pay for. I understand. You show me the redwoods And the ocean. Things that I had never seen before. We camp beneath the stars and I feel magick in the air. We fancy ourselves pro campers The expert couple in the woods. I am only the second girl to meet your grandparents. Your grandfather talks and smacks his lips. Your grandmother smiles and hugs us both. One night in the redwoods And we drive eight hours home And I am so in love with you. We talk about marriage and kids And a goat farm in Oregon. We make plans for the future. Should we elope? Perhaps tomorrow. June. We try for children of our own. You ask and I am thrilled to say yes. The river is clean and still cold. We swim and I turn purple. You swath me in towels and affection. When we return with friends and it is a little warmer And I turn purple again and apologize You shake your head. I retrieve my own towel and laugh. When you’re with this particular friend Things seem to change between us. You touch me only when he is not looking Or else only at my prompting. When it is you and I and him and others I feel lonely And forgotten. Your eyes stray my way with apology. I forgive. At night I brush your cheekbones with my thumbs And when you fall asleep I cry Because my depression has coaxed me. I am not enough. I am scared.