i kept anticipating
blocked off entrances and
handwritten out-of-order signs
over gas station bathroom doors
that are rusting at the corners

because each time i got in my car
that smells like sweaty dog
and lavender
i found a reason to turn around
i convinced myself that
the green lights were not meant for me
only backroads and passenger seats

the sun was not there
when i kept going
the sky was full of grey
and i could feel the rain in my chest;
i didn’t need it to be a perfect summer day
i just needed to believe
that i had enough light within me
to make it through

one day
it will be easy to breathe
my lungs will inhale flowers
and honey
it will be second nature
like riding a bicycle
like tying a shoe
like swallowing a pill
and i will hold on
tightly and
with shaking hands
until then

i am envious
of what you have,
but not
of who you are

regardless,
it withers me

instead of watching
your garden grow, even if
i find it
utterly dull;

perhaps,
i should start digging up
the earth in my own,
neglected plot

and observe
what becomes

i want to keep falling asleep to your voice till the world stops existing.
i wish i could dissolve up out of my body and take a photo from
above of me lying here, arms outstretched and duvet covering
most of me except for a few strands of hair peeking out because
then you could see how tired i am, i am so tired.

you make so much sense
amidst the tangled vines of
learning and unlearning
please don’t go before i get better

does your skin ever melt into the mirror
do your palms ever reach the other side
will these reflections ever make sense
ever feel familiar
ever seem right
whole
on purpose

do you find yourself, one day
staring back, unsurprised
thinking, i know her well
able to plaster her on billboards and
not shiver with questioned identity

because i am terrified
i’ll never look like the person
i hope to see when i squeeze my eyes shut

will they ever open

there are ladybugs crawling all over my mother’s house
or maybe it’s my stepfather’s house
or my brother and sister’s house
it’s someone’s house, it’s not mine
there are ladybugs scaling the window panes
and upside down, polka-dotted carcasses
lining the kitchen floor
the faucet is dripping
it has been for years
you dream of growing up in a house with a
fireplace in the living room
you forget that you might live there with people who
won’t fix it
they grow cold instead
they throw cardboard boxes over the side of the front porch
and pungent trash bags into a rusting and dented trunk
the basement is unfinished, filled with dead mice
and god knows what else
the washer trembles when it’s off balance
it won’t stop till you rearrange the soaking threads
there’s a yard full of untrodden grass

it looks so large and whole from the outside

but there are holes in the walls
the size of doorknobs and fists

i would really like to go home