i can write that it’s like a
house, neither here nor
there. when i want to, i can
go inside. i cried all
morning. took a red pill and
went to sleep. it melted in
my mouth. it tasted like
cherries. it tasted like
plastic. it felt like a hospital
bed. it felt like hands.
warm. i keep seeing all
these tiny hands all over
everything. i wash my
hands compulsively when in
new york. a lesson in how
to remember every single
thing you’ve ever touched:
plenty of dirt. every single
doorknob. and scissors.
i think we try to forget. i lay
down and google
symptoms of bipolar
disorder. i realize that i
know nothing about
anything. where do i go
when i go inside. what do
those hands feel like. they
feel warm. they look pink.
the walls are clean. the
fingernails are clear. i can
write that it’s like rainwater
getting on the legs of my
jeans in the shape of a
semicircle. all of a sudden
my legs are too long to be
safe from anything
anymore. the rain, and other
***** things. being pinned in
between the door and the
wall, saying, I’m here, I’m
still here, you’ve got to open
up now so I can get out.
scissors, for people who
are left-handed
and the most dangerous.
she tells me, get clean
before you come here. of
course i am, already. i am
taking up her whole offer,
rattling off my anecdotes,
putting an entire strawberry
in my mouth at once. it feels
hard. like the space when the
dust settles and you’re
spitting up ash that rained
down from the things that
broke. it got in your eyes
and it got in your mouth.
the broken thing is inside
you. the survivors went out
to the garden to get some
fresh air. they’re all
coughing up smoke still.
you’re like a house. that’s
why they came here: to
get safe. there’s a welcome
mat that looks up their skirts.
there’s tools on the kitchen
counter. the furniture is all
from the trash. there’s no paper
anywhere. not a single pen.
to exist in nothingness:
the space in between the
door and the wall.
the empty fridge. the
crater from the doorknob
that comes from the door
flying open, banging against
and singing, honey i’m home.
black bruise turning purple
under your fattest finger
pressing down, hard. a place
to sleep, where you grab and
hold yourself from behind until
your breathing gets slow.
something that’ll be there
in the morning. a promise of
comfort. a single comfort. a
single hope. you know
things like it: the old ice tray.
instant coffee. hand sanitizer.
cheap but good. the door has
got a good lock on it. it
clicks big and it's safe inside.
for now, i’ll just be a house.
neither here nor there. looking
around and saying, it’s ok.
such clean walls. two whole
windows. i’ll be fine to exist
here for a while.