driving an old car in need of repairs
you feel every oddity
from the creaky, heavy door and
the every so often squeaky breaks
the manual roll down windows

sometimes you gotta hit the dash
to get your scratched CD playing
old cars have warm static hums and
headlights glowing in amber
the smell of carpeted seats baked in sun

when flirting with the future,
i drove a new car and it felt
much like flying a spaceship
you're unaware of the machinery that
makes it like every other car

I thought rock bottom was
a tunnel with a long dark way down
a hole you need to curl up in
and make yourself so small
out of shame, fear, and isolation
you can’t see or feel anything
and the thought of getting out is impossible

I didn’t realize rock bottom is actually
a golden plateau high above sea level
that you walk around on freely
and you don’t even notice the earth
beneath your feet
you have the same vantage point
as everyone else
looking out at the vast great unknown

rock bottom is often times
a series of events concurrently
pushing your vitality far into a combustible
zone that orbits around your heart

Every decision I make is pushed by the ghost of my younger self and pulled by the blurry image of my future.

you’re a deep canyon
i sit perched on the overhead plane’s wing
with goggles and a glass of tea

you’re a canyon, from here,
just a thin black outline
a giggle and a wonder

i keep a tight grip around
everything that hurts
i keep asking my therapist
"how do we let go?"
and what does that even mean?
she says
to only allow yourself
maybe 10-20 minutes
to think about all these things
and inhale
I never realized I had that power
to do that
and exhale

On my journey to my grandmother’s, the landscape holds my attention with subtleties.
Muted hues of soft lavender, pale brown, and ashy green painted outside the dashboard. Everything peeking out from a gentle coat of dust.
Yellow weeds and thistles dot the golden hills.

This corner of the country feels like a cherished family heirloom. The color palette resonates with my only sense of familiarity. Maybe it is my fixation on the colors themselves that buffer any sense of grief I carry towards instability.  None of us in my family have claimed permanency in structure. Yet, my grandmother’s home is a sanctuary.

I fit into a shell
whos size
lays in the palm
of your hand

I curl my body so it’s
matching the hollowed spiral
and is pressing gently against
the cool, smooth barriers

The noises are muffled
and the air inside here
is how I imagine it feels
to fly through the clouds.