four years and I still miss her. I wonder about
her so often. I read for her, yet I
do not breathe for her. I’ve
accepted that she’s gone. I
believe she’s in a
glorious place. I’m whispering
why and why
and why and sometimes
I’m okay without knowing. The only
certainty is how much I’ll never know. I’m afraid
of not doing enough.
It’s a crushing realization to
be so aware
of my own flaws. The more
loss I unfortunately
feel as
time falls
faster and faster. Her face is
fading within my memory. What did her
laugh sound like? Did I know her
enough? The worst
part is the emptiness.
This scene comes clearly to mind,
if you’ve read “Holes,” when Stanley was
at Camp Green Lake. (Camp Green Lake was
a desert). He attempts to drive, and much like my
dreams when I am driving heedlessly and I cannot stop, he speeds and
speeds a truck full of water in the dry desert. He drives
the truck into a hole. He runs. and each time he
takes a step, his feet bringing up puffs of dry dirt,
his canteen reminds him, banging against him, empty,
empty, empty. This is life. We’re
in the desert and each step reminds us.
empty. empty. empty.

when my goals are thicker, my hopes
are fuller, I
know it's starting to go well again. I've
been at the bottom of
the well, but I've been dragged out and I'm
blinking in fear of the new sky, in
case it'll suddenly collapse. But I don't walk
stoop-shouldered because I have drawn a fragile
bubble of happiness around me, that I can bounce within it.
I compare to the times when I have seen
the lonely end of the universe, when
my goals were to slip out of bed and then
breathe the air, and now,
my bubble becomes a shield. I
am a warrior and a conqueror and I am
making great strides. To have seen
the well, to have been centered within it,
struggled to pull off the heavy rock
over my head, it is something of a wonder to now walk with my shield. My
hopes are a buoy to guide me. It's
going well again and my warrior
pose is standing strong.

I’ve been having the dreams again. The ones
which have been
interpreted; not by a fortune-teller, or an old
witch, or a seer-mage, but a practical
woman with earnest eyes and an easy smile. My dreams involve
abandonment and loss. Sometimes even
death. I dream of helpless creatures starved to death, wasting
away of hunger and thirst. Perhaps
an old soul I share remembers
locking a helpless animal with trust in its
eyes in a dark cage, and I
am here to repent;
my dreams dwelling on this horrible secret of
a previous life. But recently, my
dreams have
changed. I find the critters, soft bellies, and helpless
eyes, and I wipe off the dust and gravel
caked into their fur. I nourish
them back to health. I’m overcoming
the helplessness of time passing and
I am able to hold it, like a wish. I’m waking up
to a reality
that is finally reflected in
my dreams.

I tried to strike this
sad, single, match, it was the one remaining in the box, and it
splintered and sputtered and I muttered and moved
to throw it away, but you said no; carefully placed it tenderly back in
the box, and this is how you treat every single thing, with
love and care, seeing its potential, you tenderly hold it and give it
worth and now, months later, I opened the matchbox and saw the single
match. I threw it away, I must tell you,
I don’t’ treat all things as precious and to me, it is just a match
but I thought of you in that fleeting moment,
as I opened a new box, and struck a new match –
you were there, glimmering in the light.

Remember feeling safe?
Remember feeling, perhaps as a child,
carefree. You walk outside,
and keep walking. Green grass. Tall trees to
climb, clouds to imagine into
beings and shapes. Look
now, do you feel the same? Maybe
age has blunted me, but I see darkness
in shadows and I am aware now, always,
of a drink left alone at a bar, at going
to the bathroom alone,
at walking. Home.  
My heart is with you, people of Pittsburgh. I walk
with you, home, I walk with you,
as your steps are
ever more careful. Feeling
fear in your once well-known home.
I walk with you, I hold your hands. I know. I am there, too.
I am also afraid.
I hope you can retrace your steps, make shapes
with the clouds, feel strength within my
presence, and walk with
me. And keep walking.

In memory of Sara Galit, my friend.

Things the dead miss
sleep, but so do I
good food, rich, creamy, *****,
a breeze
the glint of winter
the burst of speed and elation coursing through as you near the end of your lap
laughter
comfort
softness
love

Things the dead do not miss
Guilt. Guilt that keeps me up at night. Telling myself repeatedly,
failure. loser. worthless.
Mistakes. they are frozen. I constantly make new ones.
Loss. They have no concept of gone.
Taking breaths of burden.
Release, even that of pain.

Let’s say the human experience the yin
and the yang of beauty and
pain, is a blessing of growth.
miracles ever producing through
the new. even at rock bottom, you’re
still moving. I compare
myself to the dead. my past a culmination
of deed and choice. and I ask, if I were
in their place, would my life be worth it?
These are things the dead miss,
but I’d like a break, too. Even
from the sun. It’s burning through the
clarity of all my flaws.

As if I haven’t written enough about anxiety, but here
it is, reminding you.
I’ve been entirely too nervous for
most of my life. I overthink
ways I could ***** up way more
than succeed. I obsess over and over
my appearance; my body is too much in a
world of overwhelming plenty plenty, I want
to be empty empty. I find peace in
water, I can feel the flow of
waves, and calm within the movement. My
body itself never stops its movement, I’m
fidgeting and my heart tells me to
stressrespond:panic and now my
fingertips are red and tingly, they
press on every object with hesitation
asking again and again if they’re real real,
my brain removes me from reality
and even pressing a thing is too cold so
it catches and breaks my skin, I
feel suddenly freezing and guilty, I
want as much space as possible to be alone, I’m
repeating thoughts and
shrink into nothing nothing I say and agree
I am nothing nothing my breaths and my
heartbeat and my blood disagrees. And
the cycle repeats.