The last time I saw God, I was face-first in a pillow
rough like sand grating against cheeks swollen
from trying to swallow back down a handful of pills
hands that were too small to hold,
too large to be wrapped in my jaw
it was November.

The first time this winter I saw snow,
I was passing by a window that couldn’t open
in a hospital, surrounded by spirits I didn’t know
skeletons breathing, sharing air with locked medicine cabinets
it was the brightest thing that touched my vision
for three days
and the metal mirror that night
my face distorted
I saw flakes of
ice, scrubbed them off
raw, they fell to the floor.

The last time I went to church,
it was my birthday
freshly December
cheeks stained rosy red
from frost,
face turning purple
suffocating under heavy glances and
empty sympathetic gestures;
like a leaf off a tree
in a room full of bushes,
unsure of where to fall
I left before the closing prayer.

I don’t remember the coming of spring,
but the waking up from a deep slumber,
a plagued slumber was sudden,
a jolt of lightning from the sky I have
always loved storms.
Blossoms on trees reminding me
that my mind was rooted in new soil
warmed under the sun,
drooping petals reminding me
that too much rain can drown
the strongest flowers
there were many rains this year.

The last time I drank poison,
I smashed the vial against the wall
and spit it out through my teeth
my doctor, she warned me that
some substances would stunt my mental growth
they were toxins,
handed to me by familiar palms
they were toxins,
to be flushed down the drain
and I was given water to calm
the acid still scorching my throat
strong,
learning that it’s hard to get rid of
skeletons in your closet
when they have voices to scream back at you
(it took me five months to bury the bones.)

Six months ago,
I saw myself at the bottom of a pill bottle
I tried to swallow
and although I’ve learned to lock up my medications
sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night,
throat tingling, stomach throbbing,
fighting off ghosts in the mirror
who have since had funerals
and been born again
fighting off frost collecting in my gut,
icicles melting to ash
inside cheeks still swollen
from when I tried to swallow snow.

strong winds bring brash waters
from the depths of the sea
kissing passionately the
feather-tips of the sand

holding in its hand
a galaxy amid the dirt. begging
to the sky for rain
yet feeling only the salty sting of
evening's tongue
by next sunrise the galaxy

has numbed into a grainy dust
to be beaten mercilessly by the lips
of morning tide.