Loops feel cursed to me,
I've been living in them for God knows how many weeks,
I'd do anything to break the pattern,
anything to make them scatter,
I've been picking the scab on my chin for an hour,
You won't read my texts anymore,

Everything I eat,
no matter how sweet,
tastes sour,
Probably a side effect again,
Isn't it always in the end?
Just a side effect again.

I've been spelling words inside my head,
It makes me feel crazy but the patterns will save me,
Just make this all stop please,
I'm tired of this repetitive clicking,
It's really really itching,
I can't breathe

It's just the side effects again
They always say it is in the end.

I wonder, when John Hancock
signed the Declaration,
if he could feel time pulling apart
then back together,
taking the shape
of his America.

I wonder, when Lincoln
felt the cold bullet
enter the curls of his hair,
if he had enjoyed the play.

I wonder, when ****’s
burned ownerless toys
and 80-year marriage rings,
if they were shaken
by the screams of thousands.

I wonder, when the sailor
kissed that nurse
when the war had been won,
if he thought about bombs
or her soft lips.

It’s Valentine’s Day.
Daddy makes coffee in two cups heart-shaped cups.
Mommy is in bed, sleeping in.
Daddy waits for Mom to wake up- she doesn’t
but she’s still breathing.
Daddy sighs and goes to work.
Mommy shakes my sister and me awake
and pulls us into boots and coats and gloves.
We tiptoe over shards of glass on the way out.

Mommy drives too fast.
She makes me watch when the light is green for go
at long intersections because she keeps getting something in her eye.
We get to the airport.
Mommy dashes inside like a guilty person in a movie
but I know she’s innocent because she’s my mom.
I sit and watch planes disappear into bundles of clouds that look like white cotton-candy
and planes land pulling their wheels into their chest with a fast whoosh.

Mommy comes back empty-handed.
One long sigh passes her lips
before she starts the car.
My sister asks where are we going.
Mommy only gets a short sound out but I know she means home.
“Good,” my sister says. “I’m tired.”
“Me too,” Mommy replies.

"You're tired, aren't you?"*

Not in the way that you think.