I want to write a poem
about being swept away in the ocean
except everyone else is being moved
and I am the tidal wave moving them

but I am not the tidal wave
and you will not move for
me

instead,
we are both being moved
and the wave is something
greater, hiding openly in
the shadows of our lives

there are no unmovable objects
but there are unstoppable forces

so I wrote a poem
about the tug/push/shove/drag of
           the ocean
about digging my feet into the sand
           and finding just enough purchase
about seeing how long I could hold on
about feeling myself weaken and give way
about falling, eventually, into the sea’s arms
           and floating away, lost on the world

so deep under the ocean,
can you hear me? can you
see me? can you breath?
can you think? can you
understand? can you
tell me how you
got there? can you
talk? tell me,
are you still
there?

I never wonder if he misses me
when my tongue still stings from the last time I bit it
pretending I could
bleed him out.

A better question is if he does not miss me, I
whose name is not attached to him
forever
and yet I took his like it were a vessel in his heart, like
when I added us together
it was only supposed to change me. I have

the remnants
of having him and I have the broken
shards of my heart burying glass in my palms: he has
absolutely nothing, I may ask
if he misses me but
mostly I just want to know if he is still empty.

There are some people who fill
other people when they cannot fill themselves, but I
have to wonder
where he bought all the rusted nails
that pinned me down so he could get inside.

The last time she saw me naked
I was a child

who would plead for forgiveness by cutting it into her skin
and who you could tell still walked barefoot
through winter and snow near
her best friend’s boat
to light a joint they would put out on her wrist.  

(She said it was beautiful
but I was destroying myself and it was beautiful
like the blood left on a train-track after someone jumps.)

december 29th –  i was a blizzard
infant, had
not gained my first color until the new year

even my eyes went white, were made of snowflakes
even my heartbeat had
a murmur, landed on my ribcage like snowfall

and every three months i give myself
up to my childhood
dye my hair so i stop fading into my white sheets

their threads are stitched from
the breath of ghosts, my mother never called to say
she wished it were hers

now
i only ever believe i have skin when it is
not being touched.

you are not very fond
of my numerous speeches
about how I wake up
and gaze at you in your sleep
about me pouring my
whole being to you
while you fiddled with my hair
how you listened
how you stared
but I will let you know
that I am in love with
the rare times
you truly speak to me
on a monday dawn
when your words
are as timed
as the beating
in my chest.
                          *p.t.