I'm just a girl
Lying on back road pavement
A girl with cold fingers
And pink hair.

Read my walls.

I stay up all night
Writing papers I hate and
I hold what hurts
Tight inside wooly blankets.

Read my walls.

I'm just a girl
A face in a shiny restaurant
An icon on your screen
A flannel-denim conversation.

Read my walls.

Read my walls, every crack around
The edge of the molding, the way the
Bumps cast their shadows, every chip in
The paint, every scratch, every letter.

Read my walls.

We all want love, we all
Want recognition and I'm not
Worth half of what anyone has
To give.

But please
Read my walls.

i'm going to be
woken up when
september ends to
i will see october first

(i'm scared to
death of living
but i'll try it for
awhile anyway)

and sure i lay
in bed until noon
most mornings
a hot dim
reconfigured dream
trying to find
reasons any
reason

(i couldn't today
didn't feel like music
didn't want coffee
didn't want to talk to friends
didn't want breakfast
didn't want to create
didn't want
didn't)

replaying your face
bathed in two a.m. blue light
telling me that i had to
keep going and that
maybe it was selfish
but you couldn't handle
the rest of your life
without me in it

(we were both crying
by the time we went to bed
and i'm crying again
when i think about it)

you know those mornings
when you wake up and know
that before the sun goes down
your face will have felt tears?

yeah it was
one of those

(and tears aren't pretty
just kind of watery)

and by the time i had a
cup of tea and was sitting
at the kitchen table i was
sobbing my eyes out

(i am so
tired)

i couldn't help it
can't help any of this

(i am so
*******
tired of being
broken in half)

and i am so
tired of fighting
to find a reason to
get out of bed.

snorting burned toast
too late in the day to
call it a complete and
nutritious breakfast

(i have my heroes
but i also know that i
will never be a hero
to someone like me)

i'm not going
to make it that far.

(call me defeatist but
i guess you're right)

that's what i haven't
been saying is that
i'm not making plans
for the fall or the spring
or the rest of my life
because i'm afraid or
maybe convinced that i'm
not going to make it that far

because before the snow
covers the lawn in quiet
white layers i will be sprinkled
over top of the grass in the
form of a grayish powder
and misplaced hymns

(i doubt that all of us
were born to live)

nosedive into a
sandwich smothered
in over-sweetened
jelly regrets

and forget about the
haunting sweat that
you can't wash off
of the back of your neck

(the nice thing about
dying young is that
you'll have the rest of
your life to forget me)

headfirst slam into
the midnight sky
i cracked my skull
open on the moon

the milky way poured
out from behind my
eyes and galaxies came
up out of my throat

bits and pieces of me have
died here and there along
the way like ripped out
pieces of that hateful lawn

(the reason i want
to be forgotten is
because i was never
worth remembering)

but really it's just that
death and darkness are such nice
peaceful calm and reasonable
topics to discuss at length.

i'm eighteen and
my mind is running away

you're screaming
ranting and raving
but don't know you're
doing it and don't know
that i'm crawling
inside a cave where
nothing can touch me
except wanting to die

you were grumbling after
dinner that i don't talk
to anybody anymore
but you don't know that i'm
not lacking words i'm just
lacking the energy
that it would take to
use any of them

(flashbacks to all the times recently
you've complained i don't love you
anymore. to my whole lifetime of
wondering if you loved me at all)

i'm thirteen and
unaware of my anxiety
associated with existence
usually put in in writing as
"pressure". but you don't think
there's anyone pressuring me

i talk too much to too
many people and have
been hurt before. but
never in that abject
way of it being because
i set myself up for it

(emotions so haywire that i end
up hospitalized over a box of
broken cd cases. now that i
remember it i was rage cleaning
and would unquestionably have
an even worse reaction today)

i'm seven and
having another ocular
migraine even though
i don't know it

(the past as as brittle as the
uncooked spaghetti filched
from the box and wedging
between my crooked teeth)

my memory fails me
whether you steamed
your way through preparing
dinner in the kitchen of faded
herbal wallpaper with words
and woodgrain. if i've been
tuning it out all this time
only to notice recently

("you're just like me" you said today
my seven-year old self thinks that's cool
while my current self is wishing to
deck someone while saying nothing)

today and tonight when intrusive
memories keep coming back is when i
remember that if i don't automatically
see things from your side there will
be a row. despite the fact you have
never investigated my perspective

(you're complaining about how
badly you sleep and how it's my
fault for waking you up at
four a.m. but did you ever stop
to ask why the ******* your
daughter is awake at four a.m.)

"my whole body hurts" you said
having taken some chronic
illnesses for some light grocery
shopping and attend a reception
"so does mine" i said
having taken a dark cloud
with me to work and
a panic attack to the library
"mine hurts worse" you replied
"and how do you know that" i demanded
sweeping my sadness off the kitchen table
"because i just do"

i guess your problem is that you
don't know how to be in pain without
minimizing mine but how hypocritical
when i'm over here minimizing
your pain to justify the fact that
my brain is trying to **** my body

(one of these days i fear what
i don't say will get the best
of me and i will crack clean
in two. start screaming
through doors death threats
ending in quadruple homicide
accompanied by my own
swinging body. it's not that
i hate everyone i just hate
feeling like i hate everyone)

but for now i'm investigating the perspective
so startlingly clear that you never loved me
just did what was required of you and so by that
standard i never would have loved you either

i’ve always been on a
mission to reinvent myself

a mission expressed through
spreadsheets, guitars
powerpoints, paintbrushes
fabric, calculator buttons
bright colors of yarn
coffee and flowers
smiles at strangers
and always words

here and there
then and again
i’ve found myself satisfied
with who i found myself
to be at the end
of the week

i thought things were
on the upswing
thought that i had
almost made it
for two months this year
i was satisfied

with fifty six hour work weeks
and the bright blue blanket
forming under my fingers
the feeling of hope
brewing when i looked in
my bank account and thought
about him
about the home
that wasn’t ours yet but
would be soon

and then it began
to crumble
a brick or two at
a time until a whole
piece of the picture
tumbled out

and my weeks were reduced
to thirty five hours and
a crippling sense of
impending disaster
even though everything else
was still looking up

now that i have a
bit of extra time i find
myself low on motivation
and wondering
if it’s time to build
a new version of myself

but i’ve reinvented myself
so many times
i don’t have the energy
to do it again

i just want to
exist

just want to fall
asleep in bed at the
end of the day and
not wake up in the morning
wanting to sleep
for the rest of the day

to enjoy moving
my body
the way the
seasons change
and how the stars
look at night

i’ve always been good
at staying
you just keep doing
what you’ve been doing
let your routines pull
you along with them

but now i’m learning
the art of leaving
and i’m finding its not
as hard as i thought it was

in fact you might
even think
of it as almost
freeing

the leaving
behind of what’s
gotten too
familiar
the option to
reinvent

past leavings
have hurt
left me reeling
on cold floors
fighting to get air
into my lungs

but this time
the leaving is
quiet
barely noticeable
in the chilly
morning dew
as i let myself
slip away
under the gray sky
that hasn’t yet
realized it’s hanging
over a lost town

and i don’t feel pain
only the slightest
twinge of
bittersweet nostalgia

i’m not going
to reinvent myself
this time
i’m going to
exist
and somewhere
along the line
i think maybe
it’s myself
that i’ll find

cold string lights
warm street lights

sweater
scrunchie
mask
mittens

fogged over
grey bus ride
it's always
morning
in this world
i've made for myself

tapping keys and
blazing screens and
soft wooden
electronica dreams

coffee cups with
grease on the outside
and swirling flakes
of keep it together girl

don't let your
fingers freeze
and hope that
your toes get warm

and at night pull
the velvety clouds
over your eyes
after you slip down
like hot wax
off a candle

washed down with
soap and daily regrets
washed down with
cold wine and ink

wash
rinse
repeat
tomorrow
but for
right now

*it's all over now
baby blue

it's six o'clock
in the blessed am
and the coffee in
the bottom of my
mug is getting cold
the day is starting

with the familiar sound of
pen caps snapping on
and off sliding back and
forth in their plastic sleeve
she sits in her chair
in the dark only a tiny
blue light to shine on a
sigh here and there

i am fully made up
and totally cold
listening to the furnace
and snores that hum through
walls the scratching
of my own pen on paper

all is quiet before
sunrise
but if you listen
you can hear

what can you hear?
peace and quiet
close to that found in the
middle of the night
only less anguished
and more stoic

and so on this morning
we rise to our grind
rinse our cups
and carry on

Anxiety keeps Depression
Up all night and then
Depression sleeps
All day.

And every day they
Argue over the things they
Did or didn't say
Did or didn't do.

Sometimes they watch
TV together
But they never
Enjoy it.

Anxiety is in college and
Depression doesn't help her
Edit her papers when
She asks nicely.

Depression had a good job
She enjoyed but she ended up
Losing it and now Anxiety
Nags at her to find another.

Neither of them can
Find friends, so even though
They hate each other
They're all they've got.

They keep trying to date
But every time one brings
Home someone else, the
Other scares them off.

Depression is messy
With piles everywhere
But Anxiety keeps the kitchen
Spotlessly clean.

Anxiety can't stop bossing
Depression around
But Depression can't stop pulling
The covers over her head.

Anxiety and Depression
Are roommates
In a mental
Apartment building.

And I'm waiting for Anxiety
To forget to renew the lease
And Depression to be too
Tired to do it herself.

Rumble strips and road trips
Drive until I catch the night
Right shoulder tears for all my fears
Thruways admit I lost the fight.

An eye for an eye
Left turn for left turn
GPSs always lie
A truth for a truth
Reroute our directions but we'll
Never regain our wasted youth.

Now again I'm drifting off
The road signs mean I'm never lost
But the rumble strip will always grind
Until I forget what I drove to find.

Highway markers flashing by
In tired hate I wonder why
Until the sun must also rise
This painful day will be reprised.

Hands off the wheel, forget to blink
This desolate night is not what you think
A split second glance in my rearview
Confirms what I already knew
For though my stance to run was wrong
There's no denying you were in the back seat all along.

Heartbreak tastes like
A bitter root, grown from
Lonely nights spent building
Airy sky castles made of
Imitation crystals or golden clouds
Lined with silver.

Dreams, hopes, stacked to
The stars and back
And yet afraid to be felt
Content with staying hidden in atmosphere.

Atmospheric empowerment, it's all
Just one of those subsidiary
Illusions, a lost line of
Endless pushing to be real.
I cannot create something that
Was never meant to exist
Not even the sheets of feeling that try
To choke the wasted, flowered beds.

Watch the fresh spring dirt until
Something happens, maybe it
Grows or moves, perhaps the ground
Talks, just wait, you'll see
Someday the sky and all its
Seemingly hopeless objections of freedom
One of these days, in perseverance
The sky will find a way
To touch the earth, to befriend soil
And reconcile the trees, to forgive, but
Will the heavens ever
Run to the ends of themselves?

The Big Dipper
Dripped starlight
Into the silent
Dark pines.

Orion shot his
Arrow right on
Target into my
Cracked heart.

The Milky Way
Ceased to run its course
And instead
Spilled your name into the sky.

And still, the North Star
Kept on sparkling
Reminding me of
A stability like yours.

It was cloudless and
Moonless and the
Meteor showers were over
But not the hole in my chest.

The only hope I
Had left was that
Somewhere in the world
You saw the same stars.

"we're going to
sarah's church
this sunday"
you said.

"you're
going to sarah's
church this sunday"
i said.

and you gave
me that fishy
look you've been
giving me every
saturday night
for the last month
"why don't you
want to go to church?"

well i have my reasons
tucked up with abstracted
pushpin waves on
bible class corkboards
and poked into the corners
of empty white rooms
where abrasive carpet wore
my feet into odd patterns

sitting on my splintered
windowsill and listening to
things i wasn't invited to
something with singing and all i
really recall was sawing off warts
with a pocketknife while i listened

those early days
before the roof was
fixed were when the
trouble started.

"because
i'm not."

that's not much
of an explanation
but neither is
the truth
which by the way
i didn't mention

i didn't mention the
way i felt last night
when i looked at
year old photo effects
or the hitch in my chest
the last time i listened
to dan's cds
the way i ***** shut my eyes
and try to keep breathing
every time you drive by
what used to be woods or
someone else's welcome sign

"i like this song"
you said in the car
and i felt the bloodied swallow
of mismarked communion wine
like my first taste of hate
so many years gone now
surging down my
closed and slit throat

tim mcgraw was wrong
don't go to church because
your mama says to
don't go to church because
anybody says to
it won't get you into heaven
but it might get you
anxiety and a hospital bill.

(maybe i'm so critical
of christians because
christians were
critical of me
but hey that's just
a random thought)

and i don't talk about
how when i see the faces
of strangers that i
memorized between
the lost references of
out-of-context verses
all i see are reflections
of white words i typed
into their irises
i typed too fast.

and i was just too
tired to say that
large-scale screens
drive me over the edge
too tired to imply
once more that i
have turned into a
college-student statistic

one who has
more behind her
motives than
pure apathy.

so having thought all this
i repeated myself
"you're going to
sarah's church this week"
and wished you could
understand my reasons.

i guess mark and linda
drive a range rover now
because i saw them through
the windshield turning the corner

i'm choking in the
heat blasting from
the vents of the van
and sleeves of the past

i used to wear scarves
to infiltrate them
but then i found we
were still sharing shirts

(i'm keeping the scarves i
never wear so that someday
i can tie them all together and
hang myself from an upstairs beam
but if homocide were more
my style i'm unsure if it
would be more a matter of
revenge or personal tastes)

"you don't have any
reason to seek revenge
on your old church
or any other."

odd
that you no longer
want recompense
for the past

and odd
that one should
need recompense
from those of the cloth

i want to scream
that i need help
I NEED HELP NOW
but don't want to sound ridiculous

don't want to say that
i'm having nightmares
flashbacks
panic attacks

over something like
sunday mornings
sleeplessly reversing
to saturday nights

but on the other hand
i don't want to die of
whatever's keeping me
scared and awake

i just know that
the medication
isn't putting me to
sleep anymore.

we were two
hands wound
tight as we got
our first tattoos

and last week i
was the arm
stained with
your tears

(the last time i remember
seeing you cry was the
night last summer when i told
you i was planning to die
and you told me it was
selfish but you needed me)

it's not selfish to need
someone its selfish to
think you're strong enough
to make it all alone

you
are
strong
oh you
are so
strong

but sometimes we need
someone to give permission
to let us be weak and i know
that for you i am that someone
and for me you
are that someone

yet i'm sorry that i am
not always so strong

(and now comes the point
in the poem where i feel
guilty for a few stanzas
but we both already know
that part by heart so
this time i'll skip it)

a long time ago you
fell off the face of
the earth and i still
don't exactly know where
you went but there are parts
to every long and somewhat
dark story that eventually
become so hazed over with
dust and grime it's better to
forget them entirely

but i wrote you a letter
and i don't remember
what i wrote and i don't
know if it changed anything

but i know after that
you came back and
i don't know much
but i know maybe

you didn't need me
to have the answers
you just needed me
to be out there somewhere

i can't promise you
perfection or
good advice or
stability or
anything helpful
like that

but that's okay
because i'm human
and i can't promise you
i won't cry but i
promise you i'm not
going anywhere

our relationship
lasts because
it is both
selfish and selfless

(you told me asking
someone having a
panic attack to "breathe
for me" triggers guilt
which causes them to
be willing to do it
for the other person
i know it works because
you've walked me out of
enough panic attacks
and because sometimes
i'm over here staying
alive because i know you
need me to which is probably
selfish for both of us but
it's working so hey)

and staying alive is
the hardest and in the end
most selfish thing
i've ever done but
for you i'll try.

"darling
get out of
bed
drink a cup of
coffee
put on some
eyeliner
and i promise
you'll feel
better."

where to start
maybe where
i start
most days

dr phil says
we begin behaviors
for a reason
and they continue
for another
and i say
it’s usually
habit

some mornings
as i propel myself
down the sidewalk
i don't realize its
me moving my
own legs

(and i wonder what would
happen if i just
stopped
fell to the concrete
let the city
claim me as its own)

i know where
the puddles
form when it rains
on the asphalt terrain
been power walking
for four autumns
and i know
when to dodge them

i know where
the bus will hit
the potholes
and my body
tenses automatically
no thought

i know i carry
too much junk
around in my purse
but i’ve been
doing it so long
i don’t remember why
i thought i would need it
in the first place

i don’t need coffee
to wake me up
most mornings
but i drink it anyway

and if there’s a
box of wine in
the fridge i’ll
drink that to

(i don’t know
why i’ve been
doing everything
all right but
can’t give myself
any credit for it)

i love my commute
because i can think
and i hate it
because i never
come up with
anything new

i don't actually think
i used to be happier
in fact
i know i wasn't

but i had something
to tie myself to
espresso machine cleaner
drying my hands out

the smell of bleach
sizzle of cheese
scone dough under
my nails

buckets of carnations
armfuls of wine bottles
the hum of the
air conditioner

anchoring myself
to things
sounds and smells
objects and people

i wasn't happy then
but the nostalgia smoulders

and what
now?

the same
bus ride
every
day

three blue and
white screens
screaming phone
stacks of files

i like my job
and i'm happy with it
but there's always the
constant need to
optimize
make it better

the three year
itch is real
and the three year
itch is all i've
every known
the urge to
run
against all reason

i don't know
where i'd go

i just know
it's september again
and i'm
tired of it

i have this nasty
habit of leaving
day-old sweat
in my pores
and scraping out
years of
hair follicles in
mere minutes.

have you ever gotten
to thinking about
inadequacy?
or the way a
thursday morning is
so busy but you
just feel
fogged over?

not breathing is
really gross
meaning i must be
exceptionally disgusting

and i cried when
i told you about
the fresh scars
and you gave me a
hug like i needed and
i rubbed the back of
my neck where the
humidity clung.

you see i feel
guilty keeping secrets
but even more
guilty when you worry
because nobody
should worry about me

it's not
worth it.

i'm seventeen
days clean now
seventeen
days closer to

closer
closer

**** it hurts
to be a failure

once in awhile i think too hard
about the graduation parties
inserted into forced friendships
and i wonder if any of my
darkest moments had
been felt by the other girls, too.

there are dark moments
that stand out to me
too bright on the
canvass of life.

i was seven years old
and some boys shouted at me
and told me that my pink bicycle
(obtained secondhand from some
nice church family)
was actually theirs
(it wasn't but i can
still see the scene in my mind
and don't know why it still
bothers me sometimes.)

i was a little older
and somebody was slamming doors
running up and down stairs
and i was sitting on my assistant
pastor's couch with some
eighth-grade girls i didn't know
who were crying their eyes out
and i was feeling very bitter and afraid.

somebody was screaming
****** threats and my heart
was pushed into my throat like
pony beads between marbles
inside paisley print just like that
necklace from that one funeral

was it papa's funeral?
i can't even remember.

all i knew was that
there had been a car accident
and i knew that just hours before
he had won one of
barb's stuffed giraffes in a raffle
and christmas had been coming up
i think i cried in the shower
but i know i sat in the living room
stared at the wall and jared said
"you could go downstairs and
talk to somebody"
i didn't.

that was the first christmas
that ever felt truly wrong.

i have never felt so
alone as i sat cross-legged on
a hospital bed in the blue
paper scrubs they put you in
when they think you're a loaded gun
and listened to the world run by
tears barely dried and pen
scratching away

i never would have ended up there
if i had known how to manipulate
the system like i do now
but i wasn't smart enough to know
that saying you have
suicidal thoughts is as
good as saying you've got a plan and
a knife in your back pocket.

i think my arms were still
bleeding under my sleeves
when you looked me in the
eye and slapped me in the face.

literally
i mean that you
literally
hit me in the face
oh but mom
was ******.

i still think about that sometimes
while we're at the dinner table
all eating together and i'll move
my chair over two inches
because you're right next to me
and i know that it only
ever happened once and you
would never do it again but then
again it seems safer closer
to the wall
and sometimes when you're
standing by the cupboard
i walk all the way around the
stove to avoid getting too close.

i was fifteen years old
and crumpled on the bathroom floor
probably had something to do
with exhaustion and blood loss
i was seventeen years old
passed out the wrong way on my bed
brand-new laptop facedown on the floor
a byproduct of the education system

(seventeen year olds should not
have to experience going into a store
and spending the last of their
birthday money on shapewear so
they can feel almost okay about
their body at the dance
but that's just a footnote or a deep
gray addition to my blackest moments)

i remember that time a couple
months ago when you threw
me into a relaxing bath and i was
afraid you'd see my legs

and i was afraid of who
i kept finding myself to be
on sunday mornings at ten
when i was still at home
lying in bed and listening to
ambient instrumental music

(ripping myself away
is the worst feeling
i think i've ever felt
especially when the
questions start coming
sealed signed and delivered.)

hanging on by a thread
watching all the worst parts
of my memories flash over
and over again late at night
when the music hits that tiny
little crack above my heart.

but i've been thinking about
being a failure and wondering
if every girl has had her own
bathroom floor moment

and does the
difference lie in
how late at night she
lets it keep her awake?

summer
makes me sick.

sever me

the blood doesn’t
worry me
neither does the
imminent pain

just get it
fixed
remove the
gangrenous limb
please just
sever me

i’ll learn to
manage without it
i’ll teach myself
to live again

but if you want me
to stay alive just

sever me

***
a word so bad
it didn’t even need
four letters

they told us
to wait for
our future husbands
to treat the boys we
dated as if they
belonged to someone else

that if we wouldn’t do it
with our parents in the room
it wasn’t okay
to do at all

that there was
some kind of higher
spirituality achieved
by celibates and singles
but of course that
couldn’t be for everyone
(as if needing human
companionship made you weak)

******* would send
you to hell and
of course the gays were
already there

that our virginity was the most
important part of ourselves
and losing it before due time
was the worst thing we could do
but all would be better
if we said we were sorry
swore never
to do it again

there were contracts
pledges, oaths
and jewelry
if you didn’t have
a ring you weren’t
doing it right

purity
virginity
words thrown around like
hand grenades into foxholes
as insurance policy against
pregnancy and stds

a barrage against the
onslaught of our culture
morality reduced to making
guys and girls sit on
different sides of the room
and debates in the mirror
over the length of skirts
and scoop of necklines

for something we weren’t
supposed to do
they sure made us think
about it an awful lot

meanwhile
back home in our own
bedrooms all the songs
on our radios and
the movies on our tvs
told us a very different story

somewhere along the line
i got so confused i
convinced myself i never
wanted *** at all
when i finally felt
desire stirring
in the pit of my stomach
it was terrifying

i thought since i
had never felt it
that made me immune
but it really just made me
in deep
deep denial

a denial that persisted
through late evenings
of exploring another
person’s body
learning to trust someone
with my own

they told us until we said
i do
there was no reason
to believe anything would last

and some nights i can’t sleep
with worrying about
some inevitable burning and
collapse of the building called us

i feel my parents’ gazes boring
right through my chest and
hope they never find out
what i’ve been doing

turtlenecks to cover the stain
of love notes on my neck
having something on
my body to hide
takes me back to being fifteen
and the judgement of strangers
a dead weight in my stomach
and sweaters past my palms

but the feeling of your lips
and hands and breath
in my ear and for a few minutes
i don’t care that tomorrow
i’ll be trying to forget
that i’m not as pure
as they once told me
i would stay

but i am no longer
in denial
only suffocating
in guilt

found myself washing dishes
in a bra and pajama pants
watching the rain like
i would watch a movie
with half my attention
and my hands full

anxiety and rage
had hit me again
but halfway through
what i had set out to do
i found myself so tired
i had to sit down and
watch through the oven
door as my life burned away

and i knew that my
five a.m. had
come this time at
five p.m. and
things had finally
gotten bad

but i have to pretend
i'm okay as long as
it's still daylight out
thank goodness
the days keep getting
shorter and shorter
because i do so get
tired of lying to myself.

It's eating me alive
What I think but never say
It's killing me inside
All the words I keep
Confined in one notebook
Pray that they never escape
That page and stop scraping
Their claws in my brain.

I don't hate
Showers
I hate who I find
Myself to be
When I'm that
Alone
No distractions
Just my own
Twisted mental
Interactions.

And it's not the music
That makes me sad
Because I keep switching
Genres like a genuine
Shuffle button ****
But I've come to the conclusion
That it's some kind of thermal
Curtain messing with the
Natural lighting
In my brain.

And what I want you to know
Is simple
But I won't ever tell you
Because I am not
That girl anymore
Unless of course
You're keeping up
With what's going on
Between the blue lines
And stale sheets
I sleep in every
Dark afternoon.

And sometimes it hurts
Too much for words
So I don't even
Try
Just hit that shuffle button
And pretend that the music
On the other end of these
Headphones
Can actually
Change what's in my chest cavity
Cover up what's
Lying dead and rotting
In the center of everything
I've ever felt.

But let's cut the
Metaphors and get back
To this hot glass reality
Pulled straight from
The dishwasher
After four hours
And nineteen minutes
Of steam.

I remember the moment
Exactly
I was standing with the faux oak
Cupboard doors open
And blocking the
Sunlight I so avoid
And I was thinking about
The week old sermon
Still rattling around
The shelves of my
Misplaced
Thought processes.

And then
Suddenly
After years of confusion
All the pieces snapped
Into the picture of
My epiphany
And it hit me
Hard
Too hard
Why.

I'm always wondering
Why
But sometimes wondering is easier
Than why
And not knowing is better
Than why.

So I turned around and
Changed the song
But nothing is drowning this out
Nothing is stopping
The words bleeding from
My torn nailbeds
Or changing what I keep
In the cracks of my knuckles.

i want a silent
night tonight

the radio
creaking out
old songs
of cheer and

red
running
down my
arms and legs

a silent
night

all the static
noises and voices
that never
shut up

quieted
just
for
tonight

the world
asleep
while my skin
weeps

a silent
night

eerily quiet
night

fluffy snow
on the ground
blankets over
my head

over my
thoughts

peace on
earth
no fear
no hurt

silent
night

the radio
plays on
through the
twinkle lights
paper bags
golden bows

as loud as
every other
day of
the year

and i can't
just lie here

i need a
silent night

just one
night
without noise
without a fight

i remember the day
i got my bed

in my childhood room
with all my family
gathered round
we took my old
threadbare quilt
out of its bag
for the first time
and spread it out

and at six years old
i was too small to
climb up into it
and had to use a step stool

and i remember my
grandma said
what a good solid
piece of furniture it was
how it would last me
until i got married

that was fifteen years ago
but the other day
when i shifted my weight
something cracked

i thought it was just
another slat breaking
(we’ve replaced
most of them)
but when i investigated
something else had broken

it was me
and my ties
to the past and
future and learning
how to lose your family

it was the friendship
that had been there
from the beginning
the ***** blonde imp whose solution
to the height problem was a
running start across the room
or twisting her toes around knobs
on the drawers to get a step up

she and i had our
share of shenanigans
broke a few slats together
but she’s never been afraid
of climbing on what’s mine
to end up on top

the offer has been made
to take measurements
and the mattress off
reassess the damage
invent some kind of
proper repair
rebuild some bridges
that have burned

but i don’t
know anymore

the slats that i began with
my mother and father
brothers and grandparents
and childhood friends
some of them have snapped
where knotholes made a fault line

but i replaced them
with boards bigger
thicker and without
such obvious defects

it was the leaving that
broke this last piece
but i see no need to fix it
when i’m not bringing it with me

no matter how they
groan and creek and
call me a disappointment
i’m not moving my bed again
and i’m not
getting married either

and i’m sorry
to all those that
i have let down
like bed slats breaking
one by one
and to all those that
i will let down at
some point in the future

but i want to fall
peacefully asleep at night
and not through cracks
in my own sanity

and i can’t let anyone
break me
like i was just some
weakened bed slat

Words have always been an effective method of construction. In fact, if I ever wanted to build a wall, I would use nothing but my shoddy verbal and written constructs, and it would be stronger than my willpower and higher than the same wall you've built for yourself.

I keep saying I'm just tired, but you're disputing that fact and I'm sleeping at nights as if nothing were wrong, but when I sleep like that, I know it's all wrong. I don't miss the way things used to be, I miss the way I used to be.

I've got this ridiculous theory that you can love someone without being in love. Call me crazy, right? There's got to be some kind of distinction, but with you, the lines don't make sense. And I can't imagine a world of mine without you in it.

I'd like an out, a kind of escape from the harsh truth that you're a boy, and I'm a girl and our skies don't line up. I've got a long driveway with a lot of trees and stars above them, and you've got a life trajectory that doesn't include me and never will. The second you realize there's a hole in your pocket is the second you know that you lost your hope.

Mowers that bump and buses that jolt are two things that cause anxiety. Sometimes the only way to reach me is through my poetry, my cracks and chips. Hand me a sledgehammer, we're all crumbling anyway.

i used to be able
to sleep

wasn’t afraid
of getting up
and facing my day
could take an
afternoon nap
in my own bed
without having dreams
that woke me up
heart racing

disjointed ideas
and people
novocaine and needles
in my mouth
drugs to numb me
being able to fly
over sharp mountain peaks
of white circus tents
in the rain
being chased by
villains in black capes
the fear of dying

my loved ones
decaying houses in the
middle of town
having ***
needing ***
and melting down
crying and sobbing
old familiar panic
a lump in my throat
the fear of

something
what?

“you have to tell her
you have to tell your mother”
not his voice
but his voice of reason
blowing gently
through the scene
the memory of
a dozen conversations

my head in his chest
his hands on my back
and the crippling
paralyzing
panic taking
over my body

i was never afraid
of the psych ward
i was afraid of the woman
who put me there

of the threats
the bribes
the guilt
and the way she
could win every fight
and leave me
choking in the dust
of words that wouldn’t
squeeze out past
the lump in my throat

the fear is of
falling apart
and when i begin
to unravel is when
that fear becomes
debilitating

what am i
afraid of
in this dream
that doesn’t
even make
sense?

not the fear
of falling apart
because i have
already collapsed

the fear
the fear
the fear
the fear of

i can’t allow myself to admit it
but i have to

the fear is
of her

that’s what’s behind
it all i’m afraid
of my own
mother

and why
am i afraid?

what can she
do that will
actually hurt me
endanger me?

how much power
does she hold?

and that’s when i
wake up
shivering and
thirsty

i’m falling
through the cracks
in my own
conscience

i can’t be a perfect
person and i
know that all too well
but i resent myself
for the flaws in me
i can’t seem to change

is it that i can’t
change or that
i don’t want to
don’t try hard enough?

the thoughts
begin to loop
around themselves
and form a strong
rope that snakes
it’s way around my
wrists and chest
and begins to tie
off my airways
from oxygen

if there is one
thing i know
it’s women that
use your own words
against you
women who find
satisfaction in
the power of making
other people hurt

i know
i’ve seen it
experienced it
and it’s tempting
oh so tempting
to do it myself

but the worst
thing i could do
is let myself become
those that hurt me

flip over
try the other side
and the more i think
about the sleep i need
the more time passes
and the less i get

if only
i could just
get some peace
in my own head

some feelings now
have faded
like the tears and
panic i washed off

but others remain
still the urge to
cry and still the stings
where i am hurt

i am no longer
a child
but my sleeves
tell me i am vulnerable
and immature
seeking attention
and never think
about anyone's feelings
but my own

my sleeves tell me
i am selfish

and i want to cry
for if those things
were really true
i think hurting
myself would be low
on my list of priorities
and instead i would go
after targets less close
to the center of my
regrets

hurt and violate others
people i won't have to
see every day
for the rest of my life

but there they are
cuts and scratches
i'll keep to myself
trying not to be selfish

i'm a lot like
one of those books that
you don't like until the
fourth chapter or so.

but i swear that if you
will just stick with me somewhere
along the way you'll
realize i'm not so bad after all.

If I could give you
A thousand smiles
I would bottle them up
For you to take out on a rainy day.

If I could give you
A million hugs
I would put them in a box
And write your name on the lid.

If I could give you
Ten thousand perfect days
I'd put them in a saltshaker
And sprinkle them out on you one by one.

i can only promise you
one thing

and that is that someday
there will come a moment
where i
snap.

they always told me that
depression was
anger turned inward
which i understand

but this body of mine can only
hold so much

and i can promise you
there will come a day
when i just
snap.

i'm already
cracking

and i can feel all the
anger inside
trickling out
through the
hairline fractures
in my emotions.

i can only promise you
this one thing

i don't know what will
happen
but i'm afraid for when
it does

because i remember two
moments in my past
very clearly
burned into some
heavily scarred portion
of my memories.

i remember when there was
a board somewhere
behind his door
behind his eyes
and i remember when there was
a hole where my
doorknob used to be
heart used to be.

and both times
i remember
screams
threats
and tears
i cried
and panic
cold
dark
panic set in.

he was screaming
through the door
and i can still
hear it.

i know
like i
couldn't
help it
he couldn't
help it
he just
snapped.

if i dig somewhere
below the
headache
i can still hear him.

he swore
i remember he swore
and screaming
is not a big enough word
to accurately describe
his voice
and the way the rage and
hatred still transcends
all time and space
gaps between the facts.

i can only wonder
if there was anyone
in the basement
or across the driveway
who heard how
he was going to
**** his family
**** himself.

and i wonder if anyone
ever knew
how my entire world
seized
and the teetering stability
so crucial
that i acquire
fell.

to this day
i don't know why.

all i know when we talked on the phone
he said "there are some scary people here"
and i couldn't understand
how he could be
a scary person by night
and my brother by day.

years later i stood in a hallway
next to some locked doors
and i could hear a ping-pong game on
the other side.

they told me that it was the
adult ward.

and i thought about the scary people
and then i thought about me
in the adolescent ward
and wondered if i had become
a scary person too
but i still don't know.

i don't remember that
he came to see me
but i remember that
she said
he was
upset.

one day my other
brother told me that he
had had four suicide
attempts.

but all i remember seeing was
the two a.m. kitchen
conversations about
God
perpetual blue lights
from the crack under
his bedroom door
until the sunrise
and nights where he never
came home.

there were three doors
down that hallway
one had a barricade
one had up all nights
and one had a hole
where the doorknob used to be.

we're in different hallways now
ones where the doors aren't
all in order
but i can still hear the echos
and feel the separation
pulling us apart
over meals that i would rather
eat alone
and weekend car rides spent
with headphones in.

and the walls have been painted
but i can still see every word
written in invisible ink
around each window frame

the story of a family
that slowly snapped.

Gold glitter
Only stays on the ceiling
When the upholstery is gray.

Church gyms are suddenly
Piggy banks to play
Basketball upon.

I will draw a city on
The bulletin board
And owl pushpins will inhabit it.

My mind is no longer in a
Casing of gray rick-rack
And suppositions I do not feel.

It is a precarious thing to
Play a solar piano
Under the midday sky.

Have you ever heard
A pumpkin-flavored
Volkswagen van?

It happened suddenly
That everything I could possibly
See became a photography contest.

On sunshiny mornings I'll
Perch myself on the edge of
The sink and look past the
Basil and cyclamen
Past the stained glass birds
And rainbow crystals
And I will look at the trees
As I feel the poetry and taste cold pizza.

When it starts to rain I
Will brew myself a blue mug of expensive
Imported tea and sit upon the
Unswept linoleum as I listen to the
Refrigerator rumble behind my head
And the rain echo in sheets on the skylight.

And once in awhile a
Stray drop comes through the window.

If I ever find myself lonely
I'll take the six minutes back to the
Place that never sleeps and
Drape myself on the humming stairs with my other half
To remind myself that
Solitude is a gift.

People change but
Houses stay the same.

There is much to be found
When you stop sitting in chairs
And realize that the place you call
Home is a place to feel safe.

the neighbors
peonies are
unfurling
but not ours

the rhodies on main street
are starting to fade
but the in-laws’ row
is in full explosion of color
the one we planted
was taken out by a deer

the blackberry bushes
likely won’t give us
fruit this year
and the peach tree died

but the wild
strawberries
are creeping
through the lilies
of the valley and
towards the mint patch

and every day i look
out my living room
window and am
grateful

admiring the perfect
division of crab grass
down the property line
at least i’ll never
have pedestal planters
full of ornamental grass
or pesticide notices
sent to my neighbors

it can be
bittersweet
admiring someone
else’s garden
when yours
doesn’t look the same

but you have to
work with what you’ve got
and trying to fight nature
is a losing battle

they say to bloom
where you’re planted
but they leave out
a crucial part

some people
don’t bloom

some people
spread
some people
trail
some people
vine
some people
reach

not everyone can
bloom on their own
some people have to
have help to get
dug up in the fall
or fertilized in the spring

some people
do better
in container gardens
some people
are invasive
and need pulling back

and i wish
someone had told me
that it’s less
important to
bloom where you’re planted
and far better
to stop
comparing your
garden
to someone else’s

i make my bed
four times a year
because when the blankets
are on correctly
it's not easily accessible
to wear as a cape.

and i sometimes wish that
i could get out of my
own
******
head
and open up enough
to love someone
else for once.

i sometimes spray more
perfume on my
pajamas than my
dresses it's not
aromatherapy but sometimes
i calm down.

sometimes i manage to
forget
about these
disturbing
thoughts
just
reverberating
through my mind.

and sometimes i just
fall apart
but sometimes i pull
myself together.

today is the sum
of those times.

(i wonder sometimes
if they miss me)

on saturday nights
of poking away on
someone else's laptop

on sunday mornings
of flustered staggered
movements behind backs

(do they miss me
do they even notice that
i'm gone or is somebody
else better than i ever was?)

is anybody else as
frustrated as me?

or was i the exception to
some typographical rule?

and do they wish that
i was still around to fix
all their mistakes

(to get walked on
at short notice)

can they even tell that
i'm not the one behind
the screen anymore?

i don't know
but i wonder

(if anybody
misses me)*

if anybody
remembers me

because i can't
forget them.

if you've got
four men
you've got
eight legs

(how profound
now shut up
and go to sleep
you're tired)

i am tired
sorry

everything around
me is bothering me
the furniture
what's on the furniture
the mismatch of
colors everywhere

(i hate it when i get
into the car and say
that i'm tired and you
ask me why i'm tired)

like i'm just
tired okay
i'm sorry
i can't help it

that the textures all
make my head hurt
pound and ache
and i'm crying

i'm crying because
i made a choice today
and i'm going
to keep living
even though
it hurts me.

i can watch the
clock on your
dashboard
turning
backwards
the hands going
the wrong direction
it's rare to find a
analogue timepiece
in a car nowadays
even rarer to find one
that goes in retrograde.

and all i can think
about is that i'm not
happy but i'm more
settled inside

isn't it sad
to be living only
in hopes of your
expiration date?

yes
yes it is.

i'm missing last winter
just a little
how safe it felt to be
your shotgun rider
with that perfect and slightly
annoying thirty minute mashup

fifteen minutes there
fifteen minutes back
anxious to leave
anxious to get home
to get into another van
one that wasn't stifled

i was your
shotgun rider
for monday afternoons
and drives to craft fairs
the ball and our own
educational funeral.

(can we petition
to rename
graduations to
educational funerals?)

i miss the old days
when mondays were happy
not anxious
or empty

thinking back on it
we spent too much time
in the back corner booth
of the doughnut shop chain
up on the east hill outside of town
and the coffee wasn't even good

i wish we had just gone to the
grocery store and
got some of that perfect
creamline milk you never shake.

i don't remember
the day i looked
on the label of the
jug and read the date

and it very clearly
was stamped with an
expiration of next
september

but when i tasted it
it had all gone sour
and i wondered how
painful it could be
to throw milk
out early

so i'm leaving it
in the fridge
until autumn
rolls around

just thinking
about how sad
it is to be living
with the hope of dying

but don't people do
the exact same thing?

and so what
if i give up?

the world will
keep revolving
without me

everyone i
love will
someday

forget they
ever said they
loved me back

and they too
will someday

find their ashes
mixed with mine
floating on
the breeze

and the earth
will keep
hurdling through
time and space

and so what
if i give up?

have you ever felt
lost
in a deadly abyss of
thought?

it's emotionally
exhaustive
and socially
caustic
to be caught
thinking
thoughts
instead of
singing
songs.

with those
disturbing thoughts
come a lot of
perturbing feelings

and if you've ever
been unable
to explain or
detain
one of those feelings
just know that
you are not
alone.

not all of us can
assign a name
to an emotion
however benign
not all of us are so
well acquainted
with our own minds
that we can picture
the face in our brains
staring us down

but i'm daring you
the next time you
cannot justify
cannot simplify
or expedite
a feeling down
to a name
just don't
even
try.

place your finger
over that emotion
the way you would barre
your guitar strings
heart strings on
the second fret

gently
gently
run your other
hand down over
the sound hole
located somewhere
between your
stomach and
sorely neglected
central nervous system
and then pull
it back up
to play the
melody of your
most knotted
spinal chord
not too fast
not too loud

or if you find
it easier to see
the white notes laid out
unroll the shiny top
over your backbone
and press down
softly
softly
bending your fingers up
and down each
key of vertebrate
in an ascending or
descending scale
the length of which
depends upon
how tall you are.

slowly
slowly
forget
about
names
faces
sleepless nights
or how your insecurity
is still on par with
you at fourteen
when you first tried
to exploit it into music
but now you've found it best
just to tuck it behind your ears.

and learn
the cadence of
that feeling
explore each
note and tone
and play with
how it fits into
a song
surrounded by
other sounds.

you may never
play it again
you may play it
every day
for the rest of
your life

but all that is
irrelevant
in light of this
moment
a few seconds of
stilted peace and quiet.

listen to your
feelings
until your fingers
bleed
out the suppressed
emotions
society expects you
to ignore

play them like
you were in
an orchestra
and this was the
moment
of your solo

but don't
name
anything
unless you're
calling it cadd9
gsus4
em
or a7

and never
find yourself
or your
heart strings
afraid
of f#m
or even the darkest of
spinal chords
for i know that
everyone has cried
alone in the
dead of night
over the sound of
b flat.

i let myself
slip away

get lost
in other people's
words
thoughts

i fell out
of my purse
or forgot myself
in the pocket
of my winter coat
a suspicious
feeling
something
(not sure what)
was missing

it's easy
to get trapped
in a screen
a mental box of
scrolling
mindlessly
drifting
away my weekends

so easy
to forget
meaning
is so often
simply found
in creating

it's been
hard lately

i've been coming
to terms with
my mental state
for ten years
and i'm still not
satisfied

in knowing i can't
change this
can't fix myself
and that maybe
the drugs don't
even work

it's not
working

this is not
working

"no drugs
no therapy
just raw-*******
reality"

it's funny
until it's not

it's funny
until the darkness
starts creeping
its way behind
my ears and
muffling reality

it's funny
until i get drunk
funny til i
relapse

(i hate saying relapse
as if slicing open
my own skin to
calm down is
some kind of
addiction i can't break
because it's not
i don't have to do this)

it's funny until
it's not funny anymore

it's funny until i get
dragged under into
apathy by my
mental to-do list

message my doctor
about the meds
i stopped taking
two weeks ago

and call the other doctor
to get seen about that chronic
blood condition that almost
killed me that one time

call about the
iud
call about the
tattoo
call about the
driving lessons
call about the
rest of my life

i'm spiraling again
different time
different place
same looping
descent into
my own madness

their faces
come back in
my dreams

i still feel
the knots in
my stomach

a choke in
my throat
when i wake

and it doesn't
make sense yet

it may
never

but the skin
is starting to
seal the
splinters in

and before i
die hopefully
i will learn to
stop asking why.

remember last
year when i
sprained my ankle
in the parking lot?

(you came along
for the limping ride
swore you were
my ride or die)

and i had forgotten
how autumnal and
the slight haze of
anxiety over the
top of my head
until i bent my leg
wrong again today
felt that old twinge

(i mean it's completely
healed it just hurts a
tiny bit if i bend it wrong
or someone sits on it)

of doubt and
apprehension
stalking me through
winter and into summer

of the future
and if i will
have to face
it alone

(a cloying
crippling
catastrophic
fear of that
someday nobody
will love me)

but it's all in my
head i know

(that someday when
i push the people i
need away they just
won't ever come back)

but then again
you said you
were my ride or die
and that means
that i can't lose
you unless i
sabotage my
own game
twist my
own sprain.

it looks like a
striped afghan
but now i'm on
the fourth or so
to me it's just
another set of nights

i'm in stitches
wound and
pulled to hold
me together

three seasons of
hogan's heroes
the first season of
mash (twice)
hair bleached
plus the dog
and three cats
several candles

i'm trying to
keep it together
but it's hard
because every day
is more of why
i can't get it together

pull the string of
emotions together
and let the obsessive
paranoia continue

i don't cry
i stitch.

no
i do not
have my
driver's license yet

please stop asking
how that's going

please
stop asking

because if you continue
asking i will be forced
to hedge on the truth
that i'm scared

of accidentally crashing
even just getting distracted
annoying other drivers
of not knowing what to do

(of having a panic attack
behind the wheel or losing
control of myself and
intentionally crashing)

that i only feel
safe in a moving
vehicle when my
mom's driving

and that i intend to move
to a city where the bus and
my own two feet take me
wherever i need to go

so please stop
asking me
or else i'll have to
say i'm scared

and i'm also scared
of telling people that.

stop it

i know you're
lying in bed
and i know that
before you fell asleep

you went through a
mental list of all
the people you love
and prayed for each one

and i know
that i was
somewhere there
in your liturgy

stop it

i mean
it's great that
you know what
you believe like that

but please
don't get me
mixed up
in it

i don't know
why but
the thought is
bothering me tonight.

if panic! at the disco
is just the store brand
version of fall out boy

(an open mic frank sinatra
impersonation with a forehead
and the emos are a classical
knife wound in pop culture)

then i am just the
store brand version
of who i used to be

looks about the same
tastes about the same
easier on your wallet
but something's a little off
and you can't
figure out what

but it doesn't actually
matter that much
it's just oatmeal

(i don't know why i
decided on oatmeal for this
it was just the metaphor
that came to mind)

and it will all be
gone by next week
anyway so

who actually
cares as long as
we've got some
kind of breakfast?

Nose pressed against the cold glass
Blinking at the streetlights
That are trying to outshine the stars
That retreated behind their clouds.

Watching the orange bulbs
Glaring relentlessly at me
Marching in straight lines
Along the street.

Because at some point
The lights started to think
That in their overwhelming number
They outnumbered the stars.
And that in their sophistication
They were better than the fireflies
And the stars and fireflies left
Leaving the streetlights to rule.

But there is none of that
Familiar choking in my throat
And the weirdest calm
In my head.
And that is stranger than
The streetlights governing
But not as gnawing as
The empty space in me.

don't cry because
i'm gone

laugh because
my whole life
was a complete
******* joke

once in november
a late afternoon
sunbeam
managed to slip
its way into the
windowless kitchen

it hit me in the eye
and trickled down
my flannel shirt
i held it in my hand

remembered it
for days like this

days when i am
tired
and the coffee won't
come off the floor
or the stains out
of the sink
or the grounds from
under my nails

and i want to cry
but all i've got is
creamy egg wash
monotony
mixed with
chocolate chips

i keep that sunbeam
for days like this

cold and frozen
can't feel my fingers
wind blowing
down my neck

there's a tiny little
sunbeam in my
back pocket that
i'll never forget

were we
sunbleached concrete
or were we
flakes under eyes
deep in
the spring?

you might have been
a bug bite
or a whisper of
tap water on
my dirt stained
leather sandals

(no arch support
to be found
under my feet
this summer)

watch slowly as
the whitewashed
brick wall starts
to crumble and fall

were we not so
colorful that
even sunbleached concrete
found a rainbow under
our triple refined
driftwood bench?

(driftwood
that's a good
metaphor try
to remember it.)

there's just something
about the air hovering
directly above the cleanest
pavement you've ever seen
something dry and
slightly hopeless

something that looks
like every season
took its toll on
the sidewalk
and then left to
just left of the right.

when was the last time
you threw out the dress
and wore the
garment bag instead?

(i'll tell you here and now
it's not the most
comfortable idea but
it is an idea.)

we're all so highly
pigmented that
we give each other
headaches
we give
ourselves
headaches sometimes
don't we?

the whole world is so
loud with color
but i have discovered a
cure so extraordinary
it has never been recommended
before or since this moment.

falling asleep
on sunbleached concrete
is sure to wash the color
from where it pours
out the folds of your
knees and elbows and
guaranteed to clean your
skin of all things pertaining
to any season besides
your papery old age.

it's four pm sunday afternoon
and in an unforeseen
turn of events
i'm awake

guess i've slept so long
i couldn't nap away
one more
afternoon

remembering how on friday
waiting at the bus stop
a library employee
walked up to me and said

"would you
like a poem?"
and handed me
a note card

and on it was printed
a poem
and a reminder that
april was national poetry month

it reminded me
what i've known for far too long

that there are words inside me
clawing tooth and nail

trying to get out
and i have to let them

so today it's
sunday afternoon
and i'm thinking about how
sunday afternooons
aren't what
they used to be

they started out in
the backseat of a
blue dodge van
crammed between my brothers
npr on the radio
i hated car talk
but loved to hear the way
my dad laughed at what
couldn’t possibly be jokes
not since it wasn’t funny

but after car talk came
prairie home companion
garrison keillor's gravel
serenade of life in
lake woebegone
static bluegrass
the drama
of guy noir
the hilarity of
tom keith and fred newman
playing ping pong with
airplanes dive bombing overhead

winding up around the lake
through the corn fields
until we got
to grandma’s house

afternoons turned into
evenings and i would fall
asleep in the backseat
on the way home
staring upside down out the
window at the incandescent
orange street lights
barely bright enough to cast more
light than the stars
treetops dissolving into the dark sky

i always thought it was
fascinating how it everything
looked different from that
angle in the dark

sunday afternoons turned into
dashing around
the church grounds
unattended
picking up deer bones in the
back lot and throwing them
into the pond
eventually removing screens
from windows and
climbing out onto the roof

we got older
turned into teenagers
lazy summer days
a memory so
soaked in sugary
pink lemonade mix
i can't help but scrape my teeth
remembering the taste of
citric acid and innocence

how we thought we were
so grown up
but i'd give anything to be
that kid again

i wish we’d gone
on more trips to the mall
before the shops were dead husks
a fallen ozymandias
to the promise of capitalism
when there were shoe stores
and book stores and a
radio shack and a gertrude hawk

we would spend ages in the
bath and body works
smelling and calculating
how much body spray
we had to buy between ourselves
to get the most out of our coupon
exchanging the bills and bottles
in the food court across from the sears
years and years
before it would become a post
apocalyptic vaccination center of
folding chairs and masked queues

before i lost them
to the split paths
adulthood takes
us all down

i wish i'd known what
i know now
that no matter how bad
it feels in my own head
it's never a death sentence
it will come and go

i wish i’d known
that none of it would last

sunday afternoons
the in-between
washing my hair
while my friends
went with my parents
to church

i don't go to church
don't think i ever will again
even though i wonder
if the sense of community would help

it's sunday afternoon
but it's not how sunday
afternoons used to be
with johnny cash on a loop
as i lost myself in
empty cardboard boxes
straight lines of
dusty wine bottles
shattered pints of
gin on gritty concrete

sunday morning
coming down
but it never felt like
coming down
it felt as close to peace
and quiet as i could get

sunday afternoons
turned to hazy piles of
navy duvet and
dr teals scented sheets
but i can’t do that anymore
i’ve wasted enough time
trying to sleep out
my own thoughts

so i'm trying to
let myself remember
let the words out
one afternoon at a time

something about this
sunday afternoon
feels like how
they used to be

an indigo country playlist
on the tv
all alone
with my herbal tea
the candle burning is
lilac and violet
i'm starting to think
i could find a way to heal

i'm not writing this poem
for it to be good
i'm writing it because if i don't
i might slip down with
the raindrops into the drainage grate
never to be seen again

i have to let my past
wrap itself into my future
or i'll lose the parts of
myself that brought me to here

there’s something about
having the window open
while it rains that tells me
it’s going to be all right
something about how the
library bells still ring
just off the hour
that reminds me

how time passes
how sunday afternoons
have changed
and i’m sure they
will change again soon
and what a relief that is