i am planting seeds between tiles on the bathroom floor.
fingers bloodied,
ceramic grouted dust caked under nails
as I dig inch-deep holes
into the cracks and place,
oh so gently,
small dark seeds into the soil of
this apartment's skin.
i am on my knees
praying,
i am on my knees
planting,
i am just
on my knees.
I use toothpaste to bury them,
i caulk them into place with
my own ingredients.
i take a shower
water puddles under my feet
and i imagine the seeds drinking it up,
gorging themselves on my
***** water.
***** because i haven't showered in days,
***** because i sweat,
***** because i am me, and it has touched my skin.
and i imagine that one day
i will walk into the bathroom
to find a field of blue mums,
marigolds, lavender, daisies, and
clover
bursting up through the seams in the ceramic,
staining the walls, reflecting light back onto
my skin and i'd feel-
god, i don't know-
i think i'd feel alive.

has never seen a wisteria tree.
has seen a willow tree, from a distance, and 
grew up near four cherry trees that would
flower early every spring,  light pink and white petals
only there for a moment-
only to be knocked off
to rot in piles on the driveway, petals
falling onto the asphalt, onto shoulders,
falling all around  and feeling like a dream.
imagines a wisteria tree a little like that-
feeling like a dream.
hearing, somewhere that they're beautiful
when in bloom-
purple? maybe?
light blue? Also a possibility-
wonders what they're like when not,
spindly branches or thick twisting ones,
unsure of the specificities but knows that
it is beautiful because it is real,
somewhere else,
some other frame of reference.
has seen an aspen tree, the Rockies alive with them
standing on a mountain and looking out at the
waves of them and thinking that maybe that the Earth
breathes too, that
it was her chest rising and falling too
slow to perceive with
human eyes.
knows nothing of the aspen's fate from a plague of beetles,
remembers someone describing the trees as
being "eaten alive" but doesn't remember quite
who said it.
has seen a pine tree, climbed its branches as a child,
places warm palms against its trunk now,
every once and awhile looks up and
remembers how it felt-
how what felt?
the beginning of everything-
of looking out into the
sprawling earth as she breathes,
and the vast emptiness of the sky
and feeling alive.
has seen an oak tree, planted one in fact,
has Not seen a redwood.
does not know what a cherry or maple looks like
despite best efforts,
cannot remember the beetles,
despite best efforts,
cannot reach the top of the pine,
despite best efforts,
still cannot picture the wisteria tree.

1
there is something mindlessly vicious about mornings alone.
the birds call for each other as the sun rises and it’s all very
lonely, isn’t it?
the pomegranate is beautiful but no less sour for it,
the clouds are a light orange.
it still stings.
you sleep in the bed next to me and i have loved nothing like i love you,
except maybe my cat, but that’s different
i think,
or maybe my dog, or our three rats-
is it possible to be in love with different things at once?
i’m still deciding- give me another 20 years to figure it out.
my mother always told me i had so much love 
bouncing around in my chest that it was hard to keep still,
everything was-slash-is so beautiful that i couldn’t sit in one place,
affection bursting out of me from the seams.
maybe that’s true, maybe that’s just ADHD,
but does it matter? i’m not sure
what does matter:
the way my cat slept with me last night,
curled up between my chest and the edge of the bed,
rumbling softly in the moonlight.
reminds me that she loves me with soft eyes 
and the press of her perfect forehead against my hand.
i scratch under her chin and she purrs.
i lie there,
aching,
and try to sleep.

2
i believe in a past life i was a hermit
living on a wild cliff above the sea.
i spoke to only the animals i cared for and
my own reflection.
this makes sense to me-
why else would i choke on words so easily?
why else would they stick to the roof of my mouth and 
refuse to come out?
instead i think the words i want to say and then keep them inside-
little secrets
only i am allowed to know.
have you thought of a dam yet?
is it overflowing? water
streaming down the sides? throwing itself over the 
edge? dashed on the rocks below?
yeah.
yeah i think that fits, too.
bottles shatter in my chest only to be contained 
by another, larger bottle,
so on and so forth,
until my chest is fit to explode.
i get a gift for a friend, and it doesn’t work.
this feels like a metaphor for something
but i don’t know what yet.
i’m still working on that part.

3
something that always bothered me was,
like,
who allowed this to happen?
was it my mother? meaning well but hurting me anyway?
was it my father? was it G*d?
i don’t think we’ll talk about either of them
(and yes, i understand that this is a cop out).
the pinecone brings life and oxygen
but it stabs my hand when i cradle it.
life always finds a way, yes,
but could it maybe hurt just a little less?