“she sleeps, she’s quite,
she’s depressed...”

parental whispers,

I hold my breath.

Swallowed in a beige sea of packing paper and boxes,
Scattered sheets of iridescent bubble wrap at my feet.

The bare mattress, lying naked, exposed on the floor makes me swell. Queasy and uncomfortable in this space.

This feeling is new. Unfamiliar and strange. I don't like the way it envelopes me. Constricting and unshakeable.

"Just one moment longer. Just one last rest."

The mattress, she sighs and settles under my weight.

I close my eyes, and hold my breath.

I can hear the faint rumble of the train in the distance, the ever present hum of traffic, the buzz as the heat kicks in through the vent above my head.

I open my eyes, and notice a blotch of grey paint on the ceiling. I am reminded of the weekend I painted these walls. I am reminded of pride that filled my chest, and buzzed off my skin.

I am reminded that I will miss this color, these walls.

Slowly a warmth builds between my skin and cloth.

She holds me, supports me, embraces me as I allow the swell to seep into her white stitching and fill her frame.

"What's next? What happens once all of these boxes are packed, and this room is empty?" she asks.

I melt into her. Accepting it.

"I don't know... I don't know."

All of the plans I had written in my head for myself are now no longer options.

Big beautiful blueprints, but I no longer have any of the right materials to build. The materials I do have left... I have no idea what to build with.

I am in limbo.

Every morning while I brush my teeth it feels like I spend an eternity trying to sketch out in my head:
1. who I am
2. who I want to be
and
3. where I'm going.

But most nights, when I crawl in bed and stare out the window I find myself scratching at it all with a big pink rubber eraser;

"This is all I am, this is all there is".

These plans never even last a day.

October stings and March aches.

The days in between
are measured in ounces of coffee and
hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Stacks of books collect dust while
the bathtub faucet is always running.
Soapy, hot water washes away the grime of another day spent waiting.

Steam emanates off of the tops of my thighs.
This is the closest I'll ever get to glowing in the dark.

Dense thoughts,
metallic in taste.

Iron
seeps into my neurons,
coats my proteins,
flows freely between my synapses.

My head, a chrome bowling ball,
too heavy for my little hands to carry.

Nectar that soothes and leaves me
a-blossom.

Your words drip slow and syrupy,
like honey,
from your lips.

Disappointment weighs heavy,
Lead ***** roll in the pit of my gut,
I cannot lift my head from this pillow,
my body from this bed.

My chest sunk with each exhale.

My throat burned,
and that heat spread like a wild fire throughout my entire body.

I couldn't tell if what I was feeling was purely a reaction from
the cigarette perched peacefully between my fingers,

Or stifled emotion,
overflowing,
seeping from my pores.

My skin is suffocating.

The weight of muscle and fat lie heavy on my organs.

The lack of space between nerve and bone is undeniably constricting.

I am trapped in this body.

Under flesh and blood
I am gasping for air,
to no avail.

I wish for nothing more than to break apart my sternum
and step out of this form.