i’m sure of it now: there is something
Wrong about the shape of my bedroom
(has been for a while now);
from the hinges in the door to the
Dust that lingers on top of my piano
even after i’ve cleaned it,
rubbed it raw, pungent citrus smell, black keys
turned opaque and dull and dusty.
i see it everywhere, now: a pale,
tickling my throat as i breathe it in.
lately i find myself longing for that quiet,
blurry daze: for that one time I was 10 and
fell asleep, face up
under the early afternoon sun,
woke up half-blind with the brightness,
stood up as if underwater,
heat-sluggish and *****-sated,
Static. the air I breathed was heavy, but clean.
i think I was at my aunt’s -
no, the beach. Anyways.
(even my dreams look way too sharp now,
high-def, white LED lights.
everything's so terribly real. i'm so tired)
i'm not really sure where I begin
maybe under that warm, forgiving sun 7 years ago
or facing of a row of therapists
some good, some bad, all of them in one same
cold, white room where all the lights are on me,
i'm half-blind again
but they tell me to dance to the sound of
sympathetic words and thoughtful silences—
i'm waltzing with a plastic smile;
i'm dragging my body on the stage.
but in my dreams i (like the red dress)
stretch and stretch and stretch until I
can't quite face myself in the mirror;
until i'm not sure where i ever end.
i forgot to tell them about the dress.
yesterday my mom gave me a new dress -
a new red dress, sweetheart neckline -
i ran long bony fingers along its lovely stitches,
held it to my body in the mirror. And i knew, then -
even now i know -
what it will feel like, look like,
frayed and worn: muted red
delicate seams stretched, sandpaper thin,
******* dust clinging all over it.
i couldn't put it in the wash. it’s part of the process.
i rewrote this