I look at the fluorescent stars

under the shelves next to my bed:

the memories make me smile every time,

reminding me that I have friends:

it might seem silly but it’s a needed reminder,

a welcomed one.


So many years ago 

my best friend put stars on the ceiling above my bed,

stars, planets and moons:

a whole universe in my tiny bedroom.


She said that it was for the bad days:

the days I struggled to get out of bed,

for the nights when the Sandman got lost in the darkness -

when sleep seemed light years away. 


“Everyone need their own universe” she said 

She didn’t know that she was the sun I was revolving around;

I already had my universe,

I wish I had a chance to tell her that. 


A year back I had a really bad day;

the kind of day I didn’t leave bed,

eventually I called a friend &

we talked for hours and I told him 

about my own fluorescent universe,

how I lost the pieces in boxes moving:

how I hoped to find them again some day.


A week later,

a small package arrived

no universe this time

just stars, pink fluorescent stars,

and a note:

“I’m sorry I can’t be there to help you put them up.

They’re for every day: not just the bad ones.

Make your own night sky.”


And I did. 


I look at the fluorescent stars and they remind me of friends I have,

and the friends I had,

they make every bedroom feel like home:

they make the bad nights a little brighter,

they make the bad days a little better.


Everyone need their own universe;

it shouldn’t revolve around someone else though. 






He pulls my hair
I tell him harder
cause depression makes me numb and tonight,
tonight I’m tired and I want to feel something.
He pulls my hair but I said no choking:
there are rules -
at least I like to pretend that there are rules.

His other hand is moving, exploring:
set out on a mission to make me feel something, I suppose
it doesn’t matter

I feel him all tense and I say yes yes
(let’s just get it over with)

He says the name Sam over and over,
my name is not Sam but I’m used to it by now 
he’s a distraction: he’s allowed to use me,
allowed to pretend I’m someone else,
someone named Sam or likewise -
full disclosure.

My turquoise heels are not as easy to walk in the morning after,
like they agree better with the tequila than my legs.

His flat is like a fleeing memory:
morning sunbeams through the window,
the checkered floor in his kitchen:
for a moment I pictured myself as the queen -
how we’d carefully play around each other:
how in the end it is always a game we play.