Why do you write sad poems
more than happy ones?
Why does your writing frown and hate
why doesn't it laugh, like you do.
You could write on jeans
and make words out of
alphabet cereal, more often.
Instead of running to scrawl tears across
scraps of paper, in the night
- aren't you delicate in the day-time too?
Why are your squares of paper
windows onto grey views,
when you're night and stars on the telephone
bare feet and toes, dancing
- your words don't dance.
Are you still behind your bedroom door?

No,
she says.
She kisses my back.
I'm not unhappy.
When I write, it's pieces of me
I take out the bad parts,
and fold them into poems
She places her palms against mine.
They don't touch me then,
see?