Sometimes I still get like that
think I might turn eight, wake up
screaming into the night-
it's too real, I'm terrified of my own insides.
Sometimes I can't remember
if it was a dream,
because since then panic has felt
like choking on water
that tastes like the world is
too real, tastes like not coping
tastes like knocks on the door
telling you
grow up.
This time you can't sink beneath
navy blue carpets so you
see a swimming pool, think
hey, maybe I can jump in to cool my sadness down.

I was the child they taught to swim
when you left, thinking
that maybe that if I knew not to
drown then making eye contact
wouldn't feel like making myself
smaller to fit into tighter spaces,
wouldn't taste like acid into places
where only oxygen fits.

Sometimes I still get like that
time flips itself over, scraping
the pool tiles with blunt fingers-
how old was I the first time you asked me what I ate
today, am I okay,
am I okay, am I okay?
Sometimes the dream reacurres,
though now living tastes like
trying to swallow everything above
the chlorine surface, and
I can't remember the last time
I was terrified of
my insides.

I'm not screaming at night any more,
though this time no one arrives to pull me back
to the places
where I can
breathe.
I'm comfortably numb until I realise
I'm eight, sadness is cold and
I can't swim.

"Who are you?" I ask aloud.
"There should only be one, but I can see two."

"Who am I?" You repeated my question.
"I'm the one who can never leave your side."

"If your here to stay," I sigh and sit.
"You might as well help me through this day."

"That's not what I do," You laughed and jumped.
"My job is to set up obstacles to drag you through."

"What's the point?" I tilted my head.
"We are one of the same, connected at the joint."

"No, we aren't." You rolled your eyes.
"I'm the one preventing you from trying anything new."

"PLEASE! Stop!
Why, WHY must you keep babying me like this?
I am not your child.
You are not my parent.
You don't have to take care of me, for I can take care of myself."

"It is because I care about you."

"WHY? I have done nothing for you,
except be a burden to you,
because you MAKE me out to be a burden.
So, why do you care about me so much?
What have I given you?"

"You're silly.
This is why I worry.
Because, you are much too blind to realize...
Caring for you is a much easier way
to care about myself."

"When was the last time I was near you?"

"Years, my dear."

"When was the last time I said I loved you?"

"Years.."

"When did you start believing I stopped?"

"I never did."

Rick* - Are things getting better or worse between you two?
Matt - Well…things aren’t getting worse so that’s much better.
Rick - What’s so much better about it?
Matt - Everything…everyone...
Rick - In *every way?
Matt - More or less.
Rick - Less is more, even more so.
Matt - On what terms?
Rick - Everything.
Matt - Everything seems to be getting worse.
Rick - Are you two together for the better or for the worse?
Matt - We’re together to get better, not worse.
Rick - But, who’s getting better?
Matt - We both are. But we’re still love sick.
Rick - Or are you still sick of love?
Matt - No, I really do love her.
Rick - As sick as it sounds, I’m proud of you.
                 Rick walks out of the room

© Matthew Harlovic

my sister's skin
shrouds around my bones.
shapes my muscles into mitts
it shoves symmetrical compounds
into predetermined pits.
it's got the good girl in me cryin
it makes my fearful flesh duck down.
it's got me marrow deep in muck
it keeps me from flaunting a gown.
it's got me good.

it's my sister's skin on an petri dish,
it stains the slide glass through and through.
it wiggles with a watching eye,
it stays still with an empty room.
it's got me looking for annulment
mitosis into bread and wine.
a consecration i could turn to
a choir singing ticking time.
a tearful tune i hummed along
but got the melody all wrong.

i don't know one thing about my sister's skin,
no, oh.
i don't know one thing about my sister's skin.
oh, **.

it's my sister's skin
and my bruised up brain
and my broken bones
on my fragile frame.
on my mother's smock
on each piece of cloth
cotton, silk or twill,
with every thread a loss.

night after night
with each whimpered prayer
my frustrated pleas
swarming in mid-air.
with each rendition
a cry for clarity,
with each etched out thought,
a dimly lit marquee.
all this dialogue
submersing within
all these winding words
all my shameful sin.
it's my sister's sigh,
it's my mother's name,
it's every separate cell
pumping within my veins.

i shred my skin,
what's gone is gone.
i'm full of holes but still someone.
they don't need to know about my sister's skin, no.
they don't need to know about my sister's skin.