i have nightmares in white.

crisp
clean walls,
shiny, sterile floors,
the pale, blinding light
staring into me

for each click of the speculum,
each snap of latex,
there is a crack up my spine
and i am silenced

i am muted

i know
what it is like
to die.

sometimes dying
isn’t the end of existence,
it is the continuation of life
after you’re already gone

it is cracked lips and stuffy noses
it is wellness checks
and medication

it is romanticizing sharp objects
and panicking at the sight of blood

it is light pauses between words
to ensure that you are safe
before you speak

sometimes dying is living empty.

and when i wake
from my white nightmare,

i am hollow.

I won’t take showers anymore.
I won’t take them because
sometimes, when I set my Spotify on shuffle,
your favorite song still plays
because sometimes, when the water trickles down the small of my back, it feels a lot like your fingers
sometimes, soap is not enough
sometimes, I want to peel my skin up, layer by layer, until I am certain there is nothing left that you have touched
sometimes, I wonder if you still sleep on the mattress you buried me in,
wonder if there are others who share that same coffin
I wonder who I will be when I wake up tomorrow,
study my reflection in the cold, shiny shower head
with hope that one day it will change,
that i will no longer see
this
tongue biting *****,
key- laced, clenched fists *****,
flinching at the sight of chin stubble and strong jaws,
locked knees *****,
mace and matchstick *****,
feverishly avoiding eye contact,
temperature adjusting *****,
skin scrubbing *****,
birdcage mouth,
mascara tears,
weak *****.

I won’t take showers
because sometimes
I come out feeling dirtier
than I went in
because the condensation is enough
to fog up my mirror
but isn’t enough
to fog up my memory
because sometimes
an adams apple resembles
a fist to me
because I count the tiles and remember
that I am just a
paradoxical number,
the only number greater than zero
that still has no value

I wont take showers because
I know that is what
you would want me to do
you would want me
to cover the tracks for you

and if I
set myself on fire instead,
in order to destroy
any evidence
confirming
that you once lived here,
that would be
too obvious

i used to be
fond of that
light trickle,
that subdued
whisper
of rain,
the calming
sensation of
droplets,
cleansing
my spirit

i relished the
thought of a
grayscale sky
wrapping its arms
ever so gently
around me,
found comfort
in slick surfaces
and symphonies
in thunderous echoes

now, rain feels heavy,
cumbersome,
desolate,
feels like
i become
the bucket you
search for
when the
ceiling leaks,
like the air
is far
too dense
for my lungs
to handle,
like the rain
isn't really rain
when it
pours out of me

I used to be
fond of
rainy days
because they
remind me
of you

yet here,
now,
i desperately
long to be
dry

i want to be here for
the ugly.
the inopportune,
the odious.
moments when
your back breaks
from carrying
a heavy load,
when your heart bursts
from the inside,
when your tongue
becomes toxic.

i want to
plant hydrangeas
in the crevices
of your spine,
rose bushes
in your heart,
peonies in your mouth,
so that when nurtured,
you are able to stand,
able to love,
able to speak of yourself
splendidly.

know that this
is not the end.

know that even when
my hands grow weary,
and
my knees become
scabbed and
dirt- covered,
i will happily
wipe the sweat
from my aching brow
and tend to you.

because all of the ugly,
the inopportune,
the odious,
will be forgotten,
the moment
you begin
to blossom.

i long for pleasant days.
days that feel like new beginnings,
days when i feel as if i am floating,
when each and every
fiber of my being
feels content with letting go,
tying loose ends,
shedding dead skin.
when my body no longer
feels unworthy of
occupying a space in this dimension,
when my brain no longer
allows toxicity to occupy a space
within it.
i long for moments of silence.
solace for my soul,
a place for the skeletons
in my closet to
rest their dust-covered heads.
i long for happy summers.
when i no longer fear
the thought of love.
when i no longer imagine love
as an ugly ****,
devouring a flower bed.
when i no longer imagine you
resting in someone else's.

on a crisp, clean morning in the fall of 2008,  i was happy.
i walked to class, textbooks in hand.
I could almost feel the earth shifting underneath my combat boots.
I was excited to showcase my new haircut,
reaveal my new and improved self to the world.
I'll never forget when the handsome, bright eyed boy who sat behind me in first period called me a d*ke.

You see, from the very beginning, I was taught that having a ***** made me
just a girl.
Made me just a maid,
just a cook,
just a someday wife and mother,
just a dainty, pink ribbon,
just a punchline,
just an orifice,
this
is an ode to the parts of me
that no soul has ever truly desired to understand.
this is working just as hard as a man.
this is ******* with the lights on,
assuming my position,
stepping away from the kitchen.
this is burning my big girl ******* and going commando, instead.
this is scrubbing his DNA from my body and reclaiming it.

When you exist in a world
where you are instructed to keep your mouth shut,
your strongest desire is to open it,
as wide as a cavern.
Here, where we are told that we
think too much,
feel too much,
love too much,
we long to be enough.
this is being enough.
this is learning to love myself unapologetically.
this is finding comfort in my body,
despite all of the glass shards
i find myself plucking from it.
this is loving myself into
an ******, so heavy,
that it makes me feel
like a *****
is the most profound thing
a person can have.

all too often
we carry the
inexplicable burden
of perfection,
the weight balanced
upon our weakened shoulders,
we can hear our hollow bones
cracking like fallen leaves
under the pressure,
and still, we ignore it.
we see ourselves
through a looking glass
of social comparison
and self discrepancy.
she can't be better than me.
we want to believe that we are beautious beings.
we criticize what
intimidates us,
hatred falling from
our tongues
without a single,
rational thought.
it is then that we become wolves in sheep clothing

but let me tell you this:
you and i, will never be the same
my hair will never
fall the way yours does,
clothes will never
rest that delicately
upon my frame.
there is a divergence
in the way my
hips sway
and
that is okay.

i've a geyser
in my heart,
rosebuds in
my soul.
the faults,
crevices,
canyons in
my flesh
tell the story
of where i am
and have been.
i've inextinguishable embers
inside of me,
things that no other
being will
ever see.

and you,

you are
a monument,
too.

so, though
we all aspire to be
that image seared
into our minds,
from the cover
of that magazine
we read when we
were thirteen,
we will never be the same


and
that
is
incredible