Sometimes I lie When people ask me those questions Like “who inspires you the most” Or “what is the most influential thing to have happened in your life” Sometimes I talk about Women in science Or growing up adopted Or being a struggling reader when I was in third grade I never talk about my mom I never talk about feeling like I had missing pieces Not just in my heart but in my mind Like someone pulled out the naughty things The bad things Leaving me with only leftovers. When people ask me for my best story Sometimes I talk about how I faked a peanut allergy And how a boy stabbed me with an epipen when I ate a peanut butter malt in front of him Thinking he was saving my life. I usually avoid the part About me wishing that those drugs were lethal That an epipen could end it all. I find small talk to be so hard Because there aren’t enough good bits inside me To make it through a conversation. If you see me Can you just do that thing Where we make eye contact and nod slightly Smiling sometimes and not stopping. I don’t have anything Truthful left to say.
lights in our northern souls we chew peanut butter sandwiches and contemplate our existences the future is sticky and the past is honey-brown that glues our teeth together we swallow our words and drown in the light
Nervous that way I take peanut butter from the jar where blinking and licking overlap messily and focus is the last thing on my mind.
There, just there scooped is where the thought returns.
No high flying; no explanation just back, and the jar gets put on the shelf of the cupboard of wood, the oldest part of the house, and I cannot recall to write it the smell of peanuts jarred and ant poison and southern yellow pine.
Exceptional journeys sometimes have unexceptional returns. How do beginnings and ends get marked? Tree rings, expiration dates on jars