she collects me in a room
i am thin like paper
i am too busy being sad to be hungry
i am too busy being sorry to be hungry
i am too busy being an outcast to be hungry

the more i want to feel like myself the less i feel like myself
the more i start to think this is for the best
the more i start to think there is no best
that i never really liked myself, that i was the worst for myself
that this is my body giving me what i deserved

was my body doing this to be nice to me? separating me from me? was she doing this so i didn't have to carry her weight anymore
or was this punishment, for never taking care of me
back when me felt like me
instead of a boiling core

i am thin like paper and i am crumpled like tissue
like the collection of tissues
collecting like cobwebs in a garage on the bedside table

i am spending most nights crying
some nights i rage so much i knock myself out
others i rage so much i sleep for half an hour
and spend the rest of the week
running off this anger

there are only two constants in my life at this point
I only tell one of them because I am afraid of losing both at the same time

the other senses it anyway
my mother friend my big sister friend my protector friend
she saved me once from dying and she was here again to stop me again

let's put up a fight (like we always do, she noted)

I am tired I remark. I am tired, and heavy, I am lightheaded, I don't eat anymore, stop feeding me, where's your Advil
Where's your Advil?
You're out? You're out?

This is your fifth one in two hours you need to slow down

Don't tell me to slow down

My life is depending on bursts of energy and motivation to get through it and I am so terrified of the slowness and the aloneness and the being engulfed in myself and I need a stupid Advil because food is the last thing on my mind today

Okay


Get in the car

she said: Get in the Car
and this was her way of telling me she loved me
this was her way of saying she as so tired of everything I'd said to her that day but she was still there
as always, still willing to be there
still willing to take me home, willing to tuck me into bed, willing to be stronger for me
willing to be the pillar, willing to be the brick and mortar, the
standalone shop of all the support i could ever ask for


she said get in the car,
i will love you more once we get home, i will put you in the shower, i will show you when you cry you can always get cleaned right back up, i will show you broken is never broken because i will always show up, and all your pieces are something i know how to put all back together. i've seen you all put back together. i've been the one putting you back together for years now. a decade and a half now, how could i not know where they go? you're my baby you're my baby

she said get in the car and it was her way of showing up to be the best friend I always felt I needed but did not deserve

i put my heart gently upon the water
        she usually grazes softly against each wave,
with the silence of a church nave
     mimicking that gentle pry  
of prayer-filled halls.

i unroll her scripture
   making sure to lay her out completely,
allowing her to speak at ease
because
she is fluent in its ebb and flow
and it is rude to interrupt
      
   i listen with curiosity, and some intent
hidden to myself
      
      i watch her agitation bubble and build
the  anger become apparent,
        her anger becomes a parent
kicking and
        
starting
what they call the ripple effect

     of heavy breathing
or in other words, a young heart's teething

she ***** about, makes a scene,
      holds her breath
dives
before
pouring into a voluminous body of water

the  endless volumes

of my body of     water

she pours in proclamation
this is all
my body
and all
my water

our emotional waters, out to sea
out to see

    the big chain of space

between our beings

keep in mind, or in heart
that if you
hold me closer
at some point
i promise
i will let go

to see what mark you left on me, i look back into the corner of my mind.
dust-filled, nothing swept, it's a mess in here.

i once devoted much of my thought to you. put you in the main floor, dragged you to the bedroom.

today you're an attic of my mind
where i keep old memories, faded, dulled, no edges like the days they stem from
where i let she who was me but no longer is sleep.

i flip through her thoughts, they used to be mine/
can i call them that still?

crying into your bed
gripped sheets, bitter is the taste of defeats
a fist mark in the mattress
beneath the wings of your pillow
day's tears all over your blanket
(the one we used to hide under)
(and it was safe)

there, a picture burns in my mind, a picture of you sinking into a memory foam mattress that just won't‪ Forget
just won’t
relent

when you throw your breath into the pillow. you are face down, eyes closed, tears falling. the bed is looking at you like there is no comfort for it to introduce you to
it is helpless.

my bed is safety, my bed is refuge.

your bed is a war zone, your bed is a construction zone, your bed is a witness to the crime of your pain

when I found you my heart sunk to my feet. I remember my gut pushing me to your bed and I remember touching the tear stained sheets thinking I was not meant for this, thinking I was not built for this. I remember breathing and breathing and breathing and never feeling like it made a difference at all. being by you felt like the death I didn’t know how to tell no. so i stayed, contemplated a bunk bed, contemplated a queen size bed.
I learned the hard way
I cannot make anyone else's bed
I cannot be the one to lie in it.