Wayfinder or Polaris
was the name of the poem
that had been ping-ponging around my periphery
for the better part of two months

This, I thought, would be my magnum opus
the most perfect expression
of the safest direction
I’ve ever known

I envisioned myself writing it out
finally
in Word on my Dell
between case notes
or maybe on a scrap piece of paper
while parked waiting for a client

No fanfare

that is how I imagined it
Important things always flowed effortlessly
like the boy with hair
that was my new favorite color

But that was not the reality
that I have ever lived in

Wayfinder: Polaris
My dad had tried to explain it to me many times:
“The northern star is located in the little dipper;
it is the last star in the handle”

It was lost on me, though

So I tattooed the words on my skin
never considering the still raised lines could
somehow outlast the sentiment
of the lover who never actually

had to speak the words

*typing…

i am broken and i want to be whole
death is stained on my fingertips
he loves the taste of my tears
so i wash my face too often

why am i so broken
there is no meaning in the cracks of my soul
i fill my life with comfort and
still death is always behind me

my throat is so swollen
from pollen and panic attacks
that ravage my body and
rip out the seams in my story

i've lost myself and
though i spent months seeking myself
all i see in the mirror is unspent
potential for depression to run me aground again

there is no wayfinder in my heart
like yours, with your goals
as a GPS and your achievements
like landmarks in your mother's hallway

i write beginnings
of sentences that now are
litter on the floor of my mind
because no words encompass my fear

and now endings are all i can think of
but i don't want to be another
face on the obituary, lost
amid painful goodbye's and small typeface