reading

for the wild dreamer,

let these words sneak up behind you.

let them tap you on the shoulder.

let it be the most unexpected surprise.

for the lost and stumbling,

let these words be the language

you needed to breathe again.

for the little girl i once was,

let these words make you proud.

let this honesty be a sign of forgiveness.

for you,

i have saved all of these moments.

some sway like untouched ghosts,

some roar and spit and rattle.

some, drifting lilies.

some, like clay in the wet, wet burrows of earth.

for the family i never knew,

i want you to know about

the things that have happened.

the people i have been along the way.

the world as i have come to know it.

for the people who

have always held my manic heart,

i hope you understand.

never

nothing about love is easy.

we are always too loud,

sometimes too soft.

always too caged,

sometimes too free.

no one ever told me

that love is the teeth

that bite your lip

without apology.

the blood that runs.

the first aid kit.

the alcohol, the gauze,

the sting.

the mouth that

kisses, k i s s e s, kisses

it better.

or the mouth that tells you

there was never

any wound at all.

will be

in this way, the undertow

is only a metaphor for surviving.

do you understand?

the currents only exist to explain grief.

so when i tell you i am drowning,

i mean that, today,

the loss sits on my chest

less like a paperweight

and more like air turned

carbon monoxide without warning.

the earth spins consistently.

most days i am ready for it.

and when i can breathe, i am floating.

the ocean swallow is a sometimes. you know?

it moves quickly.

but see the sun through the rippling water,

the light, it is close. do you understand?

do you understand now?

i am telling you i have been injured

by an unknown thing.

injured but not conquered.

i kick. i fling arms through salt and crash.

i fight my way to the surface.

in this way, though i am not now,

i will be fine.

alone

i look for you between time-thickened shadows,

in the one open window. beneath moth-bitten lace.

at the outskirts of town. in the deep end of the public pool.

at the country club somewhere in the midst

of dollar signs and tightened skin.

i empty the ocean. peel sand from the fins of every beast.

i try to gargle salt for you just

to see if you exist between molecules.

but you do not raise your hand or speak

or pull yourself from the inside of a thrift store baseball cap.

so i write you instead.

i write you into morning eyes, sleep hazy in the corners.

into froth and sip and burnt tongues.

into honey-coated berries, ripe from nothing.

into some meadow, high and above it all.

flowers pungent as they weave between breaths,

breaths humid and silent as they

brush against wax petals.

most days i write you into things that disappear.

sometimes i write you into concrete.

i am either not alone or impossibly. nothing lingers.

right

good, they say. good, who deserves love, really?

why should anyone be loved, really?

isn’t it better if love sugars only the hands of a few, anyway?

not you, anyway. never you, anyway.

and maybe i am just as rage driven and envious.

maybe i do put my hands on the wheel only to crash.

because when you leave, all reason leaves with you.

suddenly i am aching teeth and blackberry limbs, only.

i inhale. inhale. face bloodred and salted.

scream, take me with you.

and it is so big in such an empty space. it echoes on.

i think i hear the walls whisper,

they were right. they were right. they were right.

and the floors groan and laugh with them.

but the windows stay closed. the doors stay closed.

still, i am a puddle. waiting.

maybe they were right. maybe love is an escape room.

maybe i am the thing that needs escaping.

it is a growling tickle in my stomach.

this knowledge, this coaxed truth:

it did not stay like i thought it would.

not for me, anyway. never for me, anyway.

citrus

anger makes it easier to say

the lemon words,

the swollen sentences.

makes it easier to throw punches

without the memory of bruised skin.

you lick your lips and i

come away infuriated.

we will wake up tomorrow

sore and sour.

but i will empty the whole

ice tray into my water glass

before you make it

to the kitchen.

and i will leave lemon slices,

tart and lonely,

around the house.

and i will let

your cheek blister purple

before i ever admit

to the taste of citrus.

stand still

your voice leaves me quiet.

it echoes. (again and again.)

i want to tell you settle down.

i want to tell you there is no need

for all this loud.

forget your restlessness.

but i say nothing.

so the cobwebs

stretch and weave

with vigor.

the muscles stop

their clench and unravel.

my throat grows

blue-black icicle veins.

my throat becomes its own island.

my throat does not flag down

the rescue team.

my throat sees help and

stands still.

every time.

strange thing

this heart is deeply, deeply hidden.

like an old wooden box under the bed

stuffed with secrets.

mostly, love notes. though also, postcards.

handprints. glimpses. people who don’t belong

anymore but are. just are, still.

and i find it like i find the universe at dawn. quietly.

like it is still groggy from all the dark hours.

hungover from sleep.

i sneak up carefully and try to pick the lock.

it bites at my wrists. chews. spits in my eye.

it is a strange thing.

a fickle thing.