

april // a wild thing inside the heart (absence) (not like this)
i.
i feel your hands
coming from my own,
even as they
touch my face (and linger there),
feel you like an
absence, like an
echo, like a
mem’ry, and
you’ve been gone and you’re gone and you’re
going.
you are going
so much.
ii.
—the kind of empty
that pulses through your chest,
aching,
echoing through all the
empty spaces—
iii.
and i miss you like
growing up
(growing out of people)
(things and music and loves)
(books and smiles and)
(people)
and i miss you like
growing old
(memories barely there, anymore)
(the love still strong, but like an)
(echo)
(i’m not quite all here)
iv.
how have you been doing? they ask.
i’ve been thirty-seven days with zero beads, i want to say.
i’ve been hungry and i haven’t eaten in hours, i want to say.
i’ve been feeling so empty and i can’t fill myself back up, i want to say.
i can’t stop seeing accidents in front of my eyes, i want to say.
i can’t stop envisioning death, i want to say.
i can’t stop i can’t stop i can’t stop, i want to say.
just a little tired, i say.
v.
i hope you all got some rest and recharged this weekend, my teacher says.
i grin across the room to the other students,
as if this secret we’re all in on
is a good one to keep—as if it’s
something to be proud of,
to have so many sleepless nights
and early mornings.
vi.
these voices in my head
trap themselves in the crevices of
my mind—they come out to play,
preying on the weaknesses,
until i cover my ears with my
hands and close my eyes, shout
as loud as i can, “SHUT UP,
SHUT UP, SHUT UP!”
and i hold off the tears,
fold my heart back into my chest,
and say, “IT’S FINE IT’S FINE IT’S FINE I’M OKAY, YOU KNOW?
CAN’T YOU SEE I’M FINE, I’M SO
FINE, I’M DOING SO WONDERFUL!”
(i forget not to yell)
march 29th // worms and snakes and bones and head and music and time is going so slow, so fast. i miss you. i love you. can we talk?
and it’s already nine pm,
time passing
in ways that feel unnatural.
the songs—one minute,
two point five,
three minutes long, at most,
reads spotify—last mini lifetimes,
each ten, fifteen, twenty
minutes a piece
(pulling me through time
(like i’m unwilling)
(am i?)
and the breath in my lungs
feels held tight (breathless) in steel hands
disguised as ribs (as lungs) i feel like
stone. encased. there resides a snake in my
stomach (and is it me?) is it me?
can you feel it, feel this snake as it writhes,
can you feel it when you reach for my
soft belly (skin and flesh and blood and organs) like
a stranger reaching for
soon-mother’s womb?
can you feel it, honey?
and who have i become,
with eyes trained on the blood,
with eyes searching for the open spaces,
and do i want to know who she is,
this girl who looks for these things,
who sees these things and doesn’t look away?
and is this really blood that
pools in my mouth, hangs over my tongue,
or is it in my head
(is the pain radiating from my jaw
(the pressure of the weather—again—
(or is it in my head, too)
“seventeen goldfish,” i say. “you could fit
“seventeen goldfish in your pelican’s mouth, i think.”
(the snake is vicious) (it writhes) (i miss the sound of your voice)
the cereal is dry in my mouth (like cotton)
i feel like (clown in clown car)
(in the place where you’re supposed to fit)
(but you don’t, not really, not anymore,)
(not with this snake. not with your bones.) i’m driving
at sunset
but i’m not sure
who will be there, when i
arrive home—if anyone will be
i think i’m afraid of driving
(can hardly even sit in the passenger’s seat
(anymore. with the way i’ve become so
(scared. see the truck crashing into us, mom,
(even as we turn onto a new street
(and drive far away from it? don’t you see it, too, the way
(the cars turn towards us, engines louder and louder
(as they come closer—don’t you feel it, the way the metal
(splits your skin? the way the glass
(carves you up? because i feel it. i feel it.)
(i feel it.)
i miss the sound of your voice. the way
we used to speak. now, hardly every time we do,
my skin crawls. (i love you.) i feel bright green worms
press up against my skin. (i love you.) i feel the bright green worms
dig and bite, dig and bite—dig and bite. (i love you.) i miss
talking to you. (i love you.) i want the bright green worms to
go away. (i love you.) i want the snake to
go away, too. (i love you.) i want my bones
to stop their aching. (i love you.) i want to stop
being afraid. (i love you.) i like the sounds of this music, the way it
presses
against
my skin,
closer
than the
worms.
i like the way the sounds
push at my bones, push
at the snake. i like the way
they suppress the things i
feel and think (until they don’t)
(until they last) (for far too long)
i like the way i almost feel normal,
normal—like my bones don’t
hurt, like my skin doesn’t
feel so bad, like my head doesn’t
feel so awful. feel so small.
(i miss you.)
and it’s ten pm already
and the time has gone so fast.
writing this felt like
seven minutes,
not
whatever fifteen plus twelve minutes
is
march 27th // starting small
there is a tightness in my chest,
pulling spine into the ribs,
collapsing self from inside out
(remove the old leaven)
(the leaven of evil)
and the hollow aching in my
bones makes me feel brittle, feel
young and old (“it feels so scary,
getting old”), feel left behind and
lonesome (work the old out)
(fill in the gaps with Christ).
the bread is beginning to mold.
i’ll do what i can / to drown out the / negatives with the / positives, // to be able to write / these poems again / (i’ve missed you)
i.
and things became better
and things became worse
and things became better
and things became worse
and i didn’t write at all
for what seemed like months, like years,
until someone told me to fill my sponge
with so much positivity
that it drowned out the negatives
and i could write
(as much as i used to,)
(as often as i could)
february 18th // we are in space (like childhood) (with our blind and brilliant trust)
i.
push
and pull
and hold still,
(a silent yank of this tether
in the pitch-black starry dark
is the only sign that
you’re still out there)
ii.
there is the
unsteady thrumming of my heart
sounding in this small bit of
darkness
that is
paired with the aching plea that
it echoes (after) (before) (with) yours
iii.
(i miss you) (the sound of your voice)
(the way you spoke to me) (your slick-beat-forth smile)
iv.
and as ironic as it is—
as i always used to doubt it, even
with you so near—
there’s this wild, burning, blind
—trust—
that you’ll pull me back to shore,
back to safety, back to home,
(back to you)
v.
overwhelming, this ache of a
blue-black night is—
bitten lips bleeding lavender anxiety
and pale blue-pink
palms sweating nerves and hasty words—
like thick smoke through lungs,
or ancient memories in your head
of times and peoples you’ve left far behind
vi.
i’ll grab your throat in my hands,
gentle and suffocating,
and tell you things you’ll think are stupid
(if i ever own a pig, i’ll name him percy)
(i miss you and i feel it in my bones like growing up)
(sometimes my chest feels like the sky—gaping wide and long, burning everlasting)
then i’ll let you go, folding my
hands tight to my chest (like childhood) and
take a big long breath (split the air with the gaps i leave behind)
and hold it as i wait to see
whether you stay or leave
february 13th, 15th, and 17th //
i.
head is heavy,
pierced and hung
with rusting silver hooks,
a beaten, bruised box
of twisting counter-thought,
wrought in aching anguish
ii.
I CANNOT BREATHE
THROUGH IT ALL
iii.
mind is twisting,
kaleidoscoping,
losing vibes to reality,
iv.
and i see your face,
a waking moment,
a lapse in judgement,
v.
and i collide—burning star—into you,
splitting time and space
between my staticky fingers
and i clutch our throats, burning twin ropes
so deep into our skins
that all i’ll hear
for centuries
is your hissing screams
vi.
head is twisting around and around,
spinning until all is blur,
great, wild, unknown,
but your words,
keeping me aground,
with a soft eye-close,
picture of perfect safety,
skin numbing to outsides in
a trusting let-go of surroundings,
of knowns,
of reality,
vii.
AND I PULL ON THE
BLACK-WHITE TETHER,
REACHING INTO DARKNESS BEYOND,
HOPING YOU’LL PULL ME BACK
viii.
“i’ll be dreaming my dreams with you” (“dreaming my dreams” by the cranberries)
ix.
HOW WILD AND NEW THIS
BLIND TRUST—BLIND WANT—
IS! (how i miss you)
(i think it is seen—)
(the great big hulking beast of unloved love)
x.
PULSE OF ACHING (TERROR) NIGHT AIR,
GAPING GASP OF BURNING SPACE
(I HOPE YOU PULL ME BACK TO SHORE)
(TO HOME)
(TO YOU)
december first and third // STILL MY HUMMINGBIRD WINGS // nobody notices (it’s okay, right?)
i.
clouded vision,
spilling back through
pasts and presents,
dripping insanity
like tocks and ticks
of burnt-out clocks
ii.
overloaded,
overwhelmed,
i cannot count
iii.
breathless
beats
(count in time)
(make music with your lungs)
(or we’ll split open your chest)
(and play your ribs like a xylophone)
iv.
pulsing, breaking,
i cannot—breathe?
v.
pressed close, i am; every stall, every pause,
every broken, pulsing, heavy, anxious breath,
crushed from my accordion lungs
vi.
STILL, STILL, PLEASE STILL
MY HUMMINGBIRD WINGS
vii.
i am okay?
AM I? AM I?
viii.
pulled close, i am
blazing vessel
birthing burning melancholia
ix.
i am very tired—eyes closing
long against burning blue
blazing horizon that is the sky
x.
she pulses like
flaming pink
gem nested in the sky
xi.
cradle separate self into broken arms,
ask for clarity
xii.
soak up sun,
burn bright against
the empty night
(evidently)
xiii.
cautious steps
harboring all these
heavy thoughts—
xiv.
heavy, ANXIOUS,
EMPTY THOUGHTS
xv.
ROARING LUNGS
PLEAD FOR AIR
(PULSE? BREATHE?)
xvi.
pressing, rushing river
of juxtapositions squared,
and
i am pulled beneath the current,
held beneath the rough river fingers
against the boulders that lay,
nesting themselves into
the timeless river banks
xvii.
escaping selves to nest
in the spaces between
other people’s ribs—
xviii.
nobody notices—
(that’s okay, right?)
existence twisting
thorny vines ’round
my bruised and bloodied
form—
(that’s okay, right?)
(IT’S OKAY, RIGHT?)
xix.
can i be stronger than this?
should i try to be?
should i find some help—
or should i be made to
suffer through it all?
xx.
no one notices—
is this alright?
should i make myself
so terribly known?
xxi.
—i’m so sorry for ruining it all—
i’m so sorry—
november twenty-first, twenty-second, and twenty-ninth // i miss you terribly
i.
this feeling aches,
moans, presses deep,
pulls me close
ii.
i am so tired—
so tired, so tired
iii.
water rushing in my
ears, roaring melancholy through
canals to brain, sending shattering
pain through each responding wave
iv.
kaleidoscoping emotions
into heavy, burning
colors, blinding eyes
from the spinning
reality
v.
victim to my own
pressing, pulling
melancholy
vi.
hi, hello, hey
(it’s been so long)
—i miss you—
terribly—
vii.
i miss you!
false cheeriness—
pretending i’m not
overcome with this
wretched melancholy!
viii.
but i mean it, i mean it
in the worst of ways—
i miss you—
ix.
can we talk?
please? i do
not mind what is
said, just want to
see your name
jump across
my screen
x.
i’m swinging between
deafening silence
and overwhelming thought,
crushing existence
and burning apathy—
pushing
and pulling—
i cannot
b r e a t h e —
xi.
i don’t know what i want
(silence) (to not want)
(to be myself again)
xii.
i’m trying—i’m trying really hard—
xiii.
i have eradicated
all but a few wants
so i do not know what
it is i can answer you with
xiv.
why find help
when someone
else is a
lot more broken
than i?
xv.
how can i look forward to
anything at all, knowing
i’ll sabotage it, in the end?
xvi.
DO YOU WANT MY HEART OF HEARTS?
xvii.
i miss you terribly.
(please come back)
(please)
november seventeenth // alternating between crippling pain and half-numbness
i.
you are quiet in your ways
(can you recognize my silence?)
ii.
i am so—
dumb (not in a mean way, simply fact)—
why must i act
this way?
iii.
WHAT IS THIS?
m e l a n c h o l y ?
m e l a n c h o l y !
iv.
i feel—i am—so sick,
but cowardice—doubt—fear
—anger—
grows like moss between
my aching bones
and i stubbornly “do not”—
do not!—do not!—do not!
v.
(stand alone)
(tame your thoughts)
(leave them on the ground)
(crush them beneath)
(the toe of your)
(shoe)
vi.
crumpled spine
like accordion—
play me loud in
front of biggest
crowds
vii.
(still)
(yourself?)
viii.
i’m so sorry
for throwing
my poisonous
purple claws
around your
already-bruised
neck, sorry
for letting my
anger seep
through my
words, to hurt
you (even if)
(you don’t say)
(anything about)
(it, but brush)
(away those)
(apologies, saying)
(that there’s no)
(need—but)
(it still hurts,)
(that anger, it makes)
(everything taste)
(so s o u r—)
ix.
LET it GO? (i’m sorry)
(i’m sorry) WHERE?
where should i put
all this melancholy?
where should i let myself
go, in a place where the
wreckage might not consume
anyone else?
(where?) WHERE? where?
x.
would that be okay?
with such anger, hurt,
and sorrow?
xi.
(I DON’T WANT)
(YOU TO KNOW—)
xii.
let me go!
let me free!
i do not wish to
hurt you with
who i’ve come to be—
november fifteenth // (just give it time?)
i.
twisting,
falling through
the sky, reaching
right out to you
(to when have)
(you gone?)
so swift
in all your
“LEFT”s
and your
“LEAVING”s
(to when have)
(you gone?)
you do not reach
back through the
cloudless skies
towards me, but
i cannot seem to
pull back my
own hands,
too
(to when have)
(you gone?)
ii.
and i miss you,
i miss you, in
such a burning, aching
way
(i miss you)
(i miss you)
iii.
i wish you’d come back
(please, oh, please)
(come back)
iv.
i am singing melancholy,
melancholy,
m e l a n c h o l y