I'm the best thing for you?
Well, so is medicine,
But the tastes makes you
Spit it out.

Don't you claim such things,
And then spit me out.
Don't speak with your eyes closed,
And cry with your hands ******.

I am your medicine.
I heal, I fight for you,
But my existence is nothing
If I'm refused.

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.

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.

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.

That sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.
The urge to deprive yourself of food because you don't deserve it.
The tightness in your neck and spine, unable to loosen.
That jitteriness in your veins that won't dissipate.
The disassociation between your eyes and brain, as if they're underwater.
The longing for an unnatural, impractical early death out of exhaustion.
That searing headache wrapped around the circumference of your skull.
The simultaneous hollowness and nausea in your throat and below where your ears meet your jaw.