Splinters from a dead tree, afloat at sea,
burrow into my neck,
jolting me awake at sunset,
reminding me that the thorns serve
to keep us looking to the horizon
for a softer place to lay.

Maybe life can drift. Maybe it can float by,
like wood that forgot it was part of a forest.
I too was torn from the forest,
adrift without the ones
who once held me steady.

But then,
in the blur of a mirage,
I’d land on pain’s shore.
And I’m sure
that life, out on that log,
was gentler than this:
fire ants, rocky beaches,
the carcass of a beached whale,
and creatures that never found their way
back to the sea.

The same girl with the most extreme opinion
draws her lines in sharpie.
Won’t speak to anyone
who colors outside them.

I remain her friend
because my spine is too loose
to hold true under weight.

She keeps saying
“If you disagree, you’re part of the problem,”
and I justify our friendship
by telling myself
that holding still,
keeping quiet,
lets me hear
past her static.

But somewhere underneath
it bothers me
that I don’t stand up and say
what the **** are you blabbing about,
you idiot.

It feels like a bulge
under my jugular notch.
That pressure when someone’s talking
and you want to speak
but must wait your turn.

A tingling, burning sensation
just behind the sternum.

If it had looks,
it’s the flame of a candle
someone just put the lid back on.
It slowly extinguishes,
leaving smoke
to fill the vacuum.

Everyone thinks I’m an idiot.
Even me.

My friends think I’m funny
but not smart,
not sharp.

I got a certificate to belay while rock climbing
just so I could be like my friends,
but Ryan wouldn’t let me belay him.

Claire thinks I’m not good enough
to teach others how to climb.

Mira told me,
“you’re the last person I thought would know the answer,”
while we were studying for a final.

I felt unsteady afterward,
like I was winded.

My mood sank fast.
There was a pressure in my abdomen -
like I had to take a ****
but I was holding it in.

And on the same note,
I wanted to run
away,
out of sight,
so I could **** in peace.

But instead,
I laughed it off
and smoked cigarettes on the porch
when I got home -
because I’m too stupid
to read the label.

I am convinced by my own actions, too -
although I can’t decide
if it’s my forgetful brain
or just my personality:
aloof,
head in the clouds.

I remember walking through the halls of high school,
friends passing by, trying to get my attention -
but I was staring at the ceiling again,
at the scattered marks, how they had no pattern,
and how that somehow made me uncomfortable.

Either way,
the stupidity sticks.

A park bench, and
A yellow orb nukes its core
a million times per second in space.
Somewhere, a man spoke his last word,
Or an infant giggled at her father’s scruff.
A black hole light-years away
engulfed another black hole of lesser mass;
the surrounding planets spaghettified.
Yes, this park bench is.
And you,
sit there with a leg over mine.
Wrinkles on your iris orbit a black hole,
visible because of our star.
It's just you and I,
sitting on a bench.

There’s something sitting on my brain.
Something disconnected.
No current. No spark.

My eyes are rolling loose in their sockets.
My voice sounds like it’s
on the other side of a wall.

I didn’t want to leave the house,
but the sun reached through the window
and coaxed me out.

Then, a brown-haired woman
with crystal eyes and porcelain cheeks
walked by,
and I caught the soft pull of her
flowery, spring-scented perfume.

It was cherries,
and my love,
and everything good.
It was honey.
It was holding my mother’s hand to cross the street.