TheCourtRose

She was kept secret from me the girl that came before The curve of her lips and color of her eyes haunt my dreams, and not yours Now I wish I didn't know the one that got away the one to never be I cannot compete with soft focus memory I am arguing with a ghost resenting a love that never bloomed wishing I had played hard to get so you can sigh my name, too If she dreams of me she will see my lips are snarling, my eyes bright green- eventually I will win and completely erase her mark from your skin

She's thinking forever and I'm thinking tonight A box of Lucky Strikes and icy china doll skin aren't conducive to a tomorrow Forever doesn't have stitched stockings like she does Be content with tonight, lovely and let's show each other what we think of the world What could have been rolls sweetly off the tongue like a stocking slides down a thigh

You're there and I'm here with usually a letter in between and enough wax and ribbon and perfumed lips to fill an ocean The scent of late summer sage wafts through your open window, city sounds float through mine We had time enough to run through the desert with plenty of memories to float every page in between One day you will visit my castle in the snow There will be plenty of winters for you and me Be patient, my pretty We can make snow angels and a safe, warm igloo and I will show you all the lines from my letters etched into the city streets You will see the world that has become my own and I hope when you return the silence of that first fallen snow will thrum within your hands enough to write me once more Your Cybil

He was the guy who hangs out with security and makes wise-ass remarks. Seemingly harmless and obviously tickled by his own perceived cleverness, and the fact that security has yet to tell him to leave off. I stopped in for the ATM, tolerating his attention for the two minutes I had to stand there. That distinct Friday-night smell was hanging in the air; alcohol, worn carpet and pheromones. I had already met one of his kind; continually jerking-off his own words, and expecting the world to reflect the kind of logical cynicism you can't argue with without running the risk of admitting you're an optimist. The first time I met him I engaged his battle, enjoying the spar, but forgot him as soon as I got home. When we met again, I didn't remember him at all but he reminded me that I had worn a bright red coat, with boots up to my thighs and that I had insulted him. I remembered the conversation because he had said that you should pick a lover who's like

Riding on the "L" from Evanston, way up on the northside and at the end of the Purple Line, (For non-Chicagoans, it's about as far away from my house as you can get.) my hip is throbbing from my second round with circus class and my head is spinning from therapy. As I get closer to the southside I can feel some of the tension leaking away and I know that soon I will be home; I can put ice on my ass and stomp around in frustration. (Well, limp around animatedly in frustration, anyway.) I'm sunk into my hoodie and pretending I'm the only one on the train when a gaggle of teenage girls sit in my vicinity. I keep my eyes averted but tune my ears in, prepared to be irritated/entertained by their conversation. Their voices take on the important edge of people who are convinced they should be listened to, and lets face it, who doesn't love hearing teenagers fling their hormones at each other? One girl in particular stands out to me because she's wearing a strip

1. in the car I asked if the Big Dipper was full of milk, he said that the Milky Way filled it up and one day it would tip over and flood the world; I asked if blood had stripes and polka-dots and she said absolutely- the house is still covered in unicorns and crystals, walls lined with books and glass though water seeps through the tiles now- the plumbing finally giving in as I watch from hundreds of miles away 2. Nancy Drew in my coat pocket, a mystery on a slow night takes me away and I think that one day I will be as brilliant- crawling on hands and knees in a department store looking for secret passages and finding a mirror/door with a keyhole to a security room overlooking the women's department- I keep hoping Nancy can tell me why I flinch when I'm touched and why I don't like to visit the country house anymore, but this isn't The Secret of the Old Clock or The Hidden Staircase and she can't give me an answer that won't hurt he

That first October, after I moved to Wales for my master's program, I turned 22. In Numerology 22 is a master number. I was tickled by the coincidence and figured that Wales would be an interesting experience, to say the least. This last weekend I turned 24. A solid two years later and I feel like a very different woman. As I've told everyone, I actually feel 24 years old. On practically every birthday before I never felt my age. I would always say, "Wow. I feel so much younger than ____!" Or "Man, I'm way older than ____." This year, for whatever reason, my age is perfect. My birthday was everything I needed it to be. I hadn't had a legitimate birthday party, complete with cake and singing, since I was in elementary school. Now I remember why kids get so excited. This week I've been thinking a lot about where my life is headed. As I truck along I begin to understand that there are some things we simply can't control. So many things are ou

After I moved to Wales for graduate school, and it was clear that (for one reason or another) my mind and body were beginning to unravel at an alarming rate, my parents sent me a book called Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters by Courtney E. Martin . It was the first time I picked up a non-fiction book and found myself on every single page. After reading for only a few minutes I was cracked open and bleeding on the carpet. Never had I encountered such a candid discussion about the women of my generation and the struggle we have with our bodies. I would be giving myself very little credit if I blamed all my struggles on the state of my body or how I perceive it, but only someone who has suffered eating disorders, depression, or suicidal tendencies/ ideation can understand that when you wage a battle within yourself, the most profound victim is usually your body. Anna Quindlen , a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist and author, wrote in her 2005 book Being Perfect, "Someday, sometim

give me an inch and I’ll give you a mile make room for me among the boxes and toys, and behind the velvet ropes of your life give me a patch of earth in which to grow my flowers, even though roses aren’t your favorite hand me the cistern of water, even if you never want a drink I’m asking you to not make this about you- to move over and invite me to stay to realize that in all the space of your life what I want doesn't take up much room at all

the three day grey finally broke in the sky stubborn sunlight defiantly lights the ground more concerned with my open coffee cup than mirrors and combs my skin feels Old Man Winter winding his way in the street sneaking glances through the autumn leaves- it's only a matter of time before Chicago lets him back in, no matter how poorly he treats us- just now October and one layer isn't enough hoping that a spot in the sun might find me on my way to work a leaf falls into my coffee cup but smiling because with one big swallow it's sliding down my throat with scratching persistence- having never swallowed a season before the possibilities were exciting-

I never thought that on a rainy spring day I would be in a studio in downtown Chicago with a cute little assistant shyly rubbing bronzer into my legs. He was so shy, in fact, that he couldn't continue up to my thighs. (A fact made obvious later when my skirt hiked up and the skin was pale enough to blind Helen Keller.) Nor did I think that I'd have an exuberant stylist (see below) with his hands up said skirt, and down my shirt as well. ("Don't worry honey, this means nothing to me.") Ah, it's a good life I discovered just a scant few months ago. My friend, plus-size model Teslyn Butler , who I met at a commercial shoot, recommended me to a local designer named Niehla Ollie who was in dire straights for a Caucasian, curvy model. After sending a few snapshots through email, Niehla agreed to use me for a small photo shoot. I was folded into an enthusiastic embrace in her apartment and immediately put into make-up while I learned the basic ins-and-outs of plus