I remember the time in summer camp
when we could either go swimming or paint.
Despite how much I loved to paint,
I followed my crush to the pool,
thinking my bared skin might catch his attention.
I watched as he jumped in the water,
played football, and wrestled with his friend.
He had made no compromise,
didn't change his plans because I was there.
I remember coming back to the cabin
where my friends stood with their acrylics.
Where along the line did I learn
to abandon myself for merely the possibility
of male attention, approval, appreciation?
How early was it cemented in my brain
that I am just an object to be admired
and should try at every given moment
to put myself in someone's line of view?
When did it first happen,
and how long will it take me to deconstruct,
to decentralize this gnawing belief
that I am nothing if I'm not perceived?

somewhere in the black,
my hand is outreached,
searching in that darkness.
pulling out one by one,
an item from my secret drawer.
i’m not sure what i’m looking for,
but i know when i feel it—
its smooth edges or distinct texture—
i’ll know that i found it.
i found it once,
so i know i’ll recognize it,
but the truth is,
i’m not sure if it’s still there.
did i return it to its place?
should i turn on the light?
i’m afraid that seeing all its contents
might distract me from my goal.
you helped me find it once,
but now, i don’t have you.
i’m on my own, all alone,
to again find my missing peace.

Like a little beating heart at the tips of my fingers,
a stolen piece of flame all for my own.
Between my lips, its little pulse glows
and from it, a stream of smoke flows.
The smell infiltrates my hair and my clothes,
and the rush of nicotine tingles my body.
My lungs caving from its infiltration slowly,
and oxygen in my liquid blood depleting.
It accompanies me on my walks
and has lit my way along many paths
when the only other source of heat is mine.
Slowly killing me a breath at a time
yet my sweet and savory companion lingers.

Sometimes, I’ll fall asleep on my couch,
while my bed sits a couple feet away.
It reminds me of the sleepovers I had,
of the holidays where the house was filled,
of movie nights and drunken collapses,
of the Proustian disorientation in misplacement.
I’ll sleep next to my ashtray of Marlboros,
my dropped keys, and haphazardly placed gloss,
my leftover coffee and capped waxy candles.
I grow a fondness and rapport with my mess,
a familiarity I sought with myself for ages.
Make yourself at home, I’ll say.
Stay a while.

Sometimes, I think about the envelopes under the bathroom sink
that you thoughtfully put away, to make your ends meet.
I think of the little girl who dug them out,
proudly helping her father to buy another handle.

Sometimes, I think of the papers inside that Nike shoebox,
tucked carefully under your side of the bed, out of sight.
I think of my small self climbing underneath to sift
and finding its stock cut in two at the week's end.

Sometimes, I think of that check that I got for an award
and how you allowed me to keep it, despite your circumstances.
I think of younger you, as if she were myself,
who was suffocating under the weight of a thousand worlds.

Like a weightless, wordless mime,
like a baby bird watching mother fly,
I’ll follow your lead like a dancer,
copy your moves to avoid the red laser.

New to this world and in over my head,
you’ll hold my hand as we walk the thread.
You’ll explain the rules and guide my hand,
as I hold my breath and remember to stand.

Weak in the knees and warm in the heart,
I can’t rush the finish before we even start.
I’ll slow my pace and keep the tempo
and caution what feelings are prone to grow.