what makes the days better (or, reasons why i get out of bed most days)

1. the smell of a store filled with books--
feeling justified in judging them by their covers--
skipping over the ones with photographs of
movie posters, emblazoned with the claim,
“NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!”
(somehow cheapening their literariness)--
thumbing through dog-eared pages and
opening crackling spines like
huge oak doors leading into both new
and familiar places

2. words
because of where they send my thoughts
“rain”--cozy, inside with the sound of thunder
rumbling softly across the horizon,
or on a run, fear of being drenched abandoned,
instead only the sound of my shoes splashing
through puddles and squelching through mud,
water running down my face.
“autumn”-- crisp mornings with the brightest
blue skies filled with leaves fluttering down
to the soft grass,
bright oranges and reds and
shocking yellows flashing on the landscape.
and “lavender”-- because of the way it sounds,
smooth, gentle, and comforting,
like a beloved childhood doll.

3. a hot cup of coffee before an
early morning ride
towards a long day.
the smell filling the car and giving me a
chance to breathe deeply and
calm down before the day launches into action.

4. sinking into bed at the end of the day.
bones, muscles, joints, bruises, thoughts,
and everything that ached, complicated, or confused
all settling down into much-needed rest.

5. waiting, anticipating, and holding sacred certain things--
kissing: for someone who truly matters.
Sunday: as a day of rest, quiet reflection, and worship.
and saying “I love you”: thought many times but
not spoken too hastily,
holding onto those three words tightly,
like a gift needing to be wrapped in
trust, companionship, and commitment
before being given.
stepping away from the world’s tendency to
make these anticipated things unimportant
and giving them their rightful place
in the realm of
what is meaningful
what lasts.

6. you.

Shields

I have seen what will make me happy,

what will finally fill the hole
in my life
that I became acutely aware of
soon after becoming a teenager.

I have seen my height and weight not as numbers
but as enemies. As evil things,
barring me from the happiness of having
the perfect combination of numbers,
that ratio so desired.

I have seen days and nights
(with parties, dates, and approving glances from across the room)
march silently past--
as a young boy watches soldiers.
wistfully, from the outside,
longing for a chance to fall into the ranks.

I have sat as girls with bodies
I quietly envy
tug self-consciously at hemlines
pat discontentedly at nonexistent stomachs
and shake their heads about barely-there thighs

I have looked in the mirror,standing
in the same spot they stood,
thinking that if they--
who took up so much less space than I--
are dissatisfied
then I do not have permission
to ever be content.

I have seen them like warriors--
applying their war paint of eyeliner and lipstick,
slipping shining dresses over their heads
like the frailest of armor,
and holding sequined clutches in front of them
like the smallest of shields.

and
I have seen that though
my heart
tells me that if I could be like them,
I’d be happy--
I have seen that this is
not always true.

I have seen their armor, crumpled
on the floor, their war paint
streaked with tears of broken promises.
their shields powerless to the force
of the night and its demands.

I have seen that
slipping silently into sparkling
cocktail armor
does little to protect from the
sharpness of life's arrows,
and does not ensure happiness.

I have seen all of this, but like a child
surveying a corpse-strewn battlefield
with an ache in his heart,
a deep desire to join the fight,

I long for my turn
to put on the frail armor
to coat my eyes with black and smoky shadows
and to plunge bravely into the night
armed only with a small,
dazzling shield, and a fading
false belief in the power of my
body
and its perfect combination of numbers.