The cold sun was rising. 
I put on his wolf mask.
I folded the white paper
2, 3, 4, 5 times. 
He pulled out the scissors.
































The snow stays in the air.
I want to be a ghost already.

I strip naked and pour
a bag of flour all over myself.

There is a perfection that comes
with death, my boyfriend tells me.

When I’m dead I will make
no more mistakes. I will never say

the wrong thing. Everything
crossed off my “To Do” list.































Inside I am a shaking thing.
If you lean towards my face

I swear I will stick my tongue in.
What it felt like to love you

for so many years: Snow.

snow snow snow.
This is a history of beauty.