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.
and I sit perched on the plane’s wing -
goggles on, sipping tea.

from up here,
you're 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 really mean?
she says, so gently:
“if the pain was deep enough, you will have to let go many times”
I never realized I had that power
to do that
to inhale 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
whose 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.

With long ash blonde hair
freckles dotting my face and shoulders
rosy lips and cheeks from the sun
I am a young girl again
Laying on the Atlantic ocean shore
my back pressing into the soft sand
Letting the waves roll over me
laughing hysterically
as the salt water tickles my tummy
and I plug my nose

It was at this age I smiled cheek to cheek
without worrying about the layout of my teeth
I didn’t consider myself lonely
I had quite a lot of fun with my imagination
Not yet the age where I was preoccupied
with image or my emotions
Just living like the waves crashing over me

it takes me all day
to finish a bowl of soup-
it is cold and sits on my desk,
i chip away at it until it's gone

i feel like i'm holding
a pile of Lego bricks,
sorting them by color
instead of connecting their parts

my eyes wander to
only what interests me,
and i tend to move by
either branching or spiraling

my feet are running on hot pavement
and i'm exhausted,
by the time i look around,
i'm in the same place