i want to be venus
and i want to save you
so you can
in turn
save me from myself.

the therapists say
it doesn't work that way
but what the hell
can they know?

have they bled?

have they taken themselves apart
and examined every thought,
every misplaced word,
every curl of second-hand smoke?

have they fallen apart
on a dirty curb
like an egg cracking
on a kitchen counter?

have they cut themselves
down to the bone?

i didn't think so,
you freuds and rilkes
and desperate letters
to prozac nations.

i want to be venus,
i want to be pale and clean and unscathed
(save for the scars)
and i want to wake up
in a bed like a seashell,

my legs are toothpicks
and my hair wraps
around my body.

it fans across
the white wrinkled sheets
and i am a red red
rose, a blooming rose.

i want to be venus
and i want to save you
so you can
in turn
make me coffee on sunday morning

while i watch
the pink flowers
on the living room table
bob in the breeze
coming from the air conditioner
set on the open window.

and i don't know
why i am so ashamed,
trying to catch that blanket
you threw me
from across the ocean.

and i don't know
why the wind has a lover
and black wings
and blue robes
while i am naked
and bruised and windswept,
bare feet and stationary,
dark water
and faded jade eyes.

i just want to be (re)born
and in turn
to be saved,

i want to be venus
and forget
my old name.