You see, there are veiny hands with milky
mangled bones, whose fists clench pulp insides.
The fiery burn of bile, and extraction of embedded
glass in fleshy feet. Rope-burn, gas pain, trickled red.

For me, there lies a book with torn out, scattered
pages. A teddy bear wears empty eyes
as stuffing billows out like smoke. Clamored
pots and pans in empty, hollow rooms
whose echoes hum Toccata & Fugue
in broken, choppy ***** rounds.

A ratty, pin sliced rag doll sits as sand
winds whip across deserted shores.
Chords in D minor can't quite capture
the element of loss as uniquely or eerily
as the silence I now reach out and grasp
in the hollow space your breath once filled.

Sure, the big days are hard. Turning 23 while you remain forever 22. It’s almost like time is forcing me to move on as the seasons change. But everyone expects those days to be tough. They’re prepared for with family visits and pre-planned activities. What’s hard is 3pm coffee breaks and 2am wake-ups, reaching for your hand and finding cold blankets. Making an extra cup just to pour it down the drain. When I drive alone from place to place I find the limbo between activities is what makes me ache. Not the forced smiles or the fake laughter, but the moments where reality settles and there’s static where the smiles used to be. I am forced to look in the mirror and see only my shadow beside me - no one else.

deep breaths and quiet murmurs
take up more space
than chatter, clinking glasses, and toasts.
the air feels stuffy and thick
polluted with grief, clouded with misery.
the static from sorrow resonates
on muffled frequencies.

it seems i’m tuned to FM
too often to hear
every sigh
cough
swallow
and grunt
that rest unmasked in AM

the acknowledgements page
is skipped over, skimmed through
to get to the good parts.
what happens when that page
is dog-eared and bookmarked
when we are thrown in
no life vests
to swim to the next line

this is shuffling feet and awkward balance
it’s ice water crying, bleeding on wood
it’s 5 o’clock shadow and mismatched socks
wrinkled dresses, broken zippers, and frayed rope
it’s the depths of our lives when we’ve strayed on the outskirts.
it’s a dimly lit candle, flickering in the dark
illuminating the dust left forgotten on the nightstand.
this is the grit, the film on the lens
this is muddy water

it’s crumbling walls that hit speeding cars
danger: falling rocks.
skinned knees and bruised elbows.
this is it.
the hum of the dryer, the drip of the faucet.
the things that never bothered you
when you cancelled out the background noise.
this is the shifting light of night to dawn
telling us, yes - of course, there is more.

Surrounded by apologies
weepy, weak, collapsing hugs
So young, so young, so young...

Sympathy gifts and tear-stained shirts
moldy fruit, cardboard pizza
Such a shame, poor girl, head hung.

Musty rooms and creaking floorboards
"If you ever need anything"
So strong, so strong, so strong...

Time's up, back to work, 9 -5
burnt lavender and broken wicks
Hope all is well, now move along.

Trapped thoughts, *** holes in my mind
seeking out salt water
At least you're here, now 23.

Hands on mouths and stifled gasps
"I can't imagine what you've been through"
My God, so glad that she's not me.

It was the year I drove over the Tappan Zee
for the first time of what would be hundreds.
It was the year I went five months without
my parents, living off broccoli cheddar soup
and ham sandwiches. The year I got cabin
fever and took a November bus ride through
early sunsets and empty houses, as the last
few brown leaves hung on by threads.
When I passed the Quinnipiac River, I let
swans drift away. It was the year spent sitting,
curled in my chair until the sunlight crept
and sunk beneath the torn carpet.
2010 was laundry detergent and fleeting innocence.
It was bed sheets and rain drops hiding flames.
It was the year I preferred ***** over church,
and spent the next 4 trying to erase.

Dear Lily, I scrawled on some cheap floral stationery
Doesn’t it scare you? How mom never learned
that you take your tea with milk, and every year
you opened Christmas gifts to find red wine
when you preferred whiskey? I saw your eyes,
they glimmered with hope that things would be different,
only to be overtaken by dusk and light sighs.

“Expectation is the root of all heartache,” dad says,
grizzly hands on our shoulders. Rewind to your
14th birthday that he spent on the phone, calling
Paris and India and everywhere but home, all for
us to have “everything we need”. But our teeth are
chewing, mashing up plants for fuel. Do you ever
feel like a strawberry? Ripe for the picking, bright and
bold, only to be mashed up and spread like jam on
toast? Because I do, Lily, and I hope that you were
the topping on wedding cake, because **** I was bruised.

Chewed up and spit out by a child — he didn’t know better.
“Yucky! That’s icky!” his mother cried wide-eyed (she saw
my dark spots). And now here I am, sipping your
old whiskey and hoping it will heal the bad spots deep
inside. Patch up my holes so that in eight years
when I’m good as new, I’ll throw my head back and laugh
and tell my kids I’m a refurbished version of you.

I haven’t felt connected in so long and it feels distant, cold and rigid.
I’m reading brail and you’re whispering gibberish in my ear.
I want you to feel my heartbeat and blink along with its rhythm
but you’re preoccupied scratching skin and cleaning cuts.
Your head’s above water and I’m drowning, sinking deep.