and you ask the question,

the one you know you shouldn’t—

the one that’ll hurt,

the one that’ll scar,

the one that’ll leave you gasping for breath

and unable to move for weeks,

the one that could break you forever.

but the answer

leaves something to be desired—

a pause, then a rushed response

that’s longer than “just in case”

but that hurts, if at all possible, a lot worse.

and you want to follow up,

with something like

“well, i won’t bring it if it’s bad,” or

“but do you think it’s worth it at all,

even as just a ‘just in case’?” or

something that’ll hurt worse to say.

but you don’t say anything at all.

you get in the car, and

hold the dessert in your lap,

and try not to frown.

you try not to give in.

you try not to care so much.

——

and it just hurts,

to feel this way, all while

trapped in the sticky jaws of the heat

and unable to cry. it just

hurts, i say, but there’s nothing

else to say, now is there.

——

and all i’ve got left

is a tiny whisper of breath—

no courage behind it,

not even an ounce.

no apologies, either. just

silence, and

absence.

lack.

——

beat myself up over

all the little things,

crawl inside myself, fold

into my ribs

(like well-trained acrobat)

tuck my head and face

behind pain-riddled hands,

push and push and push, willing

the pain and self-sabotage away

AWAY AWAY AWAY—

but neither leave.

neither waver.

and i turn round and round

in this crooked, gilded

bone cage, until

my eyes peek out from

behind my spine,

wide and bright and glassy

among the bone,

watching the world

from beneath a landslide,

the backside,

the b-side of things—

and, wow, is it dark.

it is bleak.

i read every word backwards.

sdrawkcab sdrawkcab sdrawkcab.

i breathe through

the gaping hole

in my chest,

and expel it all

through the windows in my skull.

i cling to the bars of my cage

and watch the world

through pale flesh, rewound.

i see music through

bloodshot, sleepless, sunken eyes.

and i in no way interact

with the outward world,

except to breathe backwards

and press faster

on the rewind button.

the afternoons were always

blue-green. the mornings were

always a young, summer type of yellow. the

evenings, they were

always

orange-black-yellow.

the orange of the setting sun,

the black of the coming dark night,

and the yellow of the lamplight

and your bedsheets.

i still remember the sounds of the birds

and the way the carpet smelled before

you had it torn up and replaced

with that white, fake-wood stuff.

i still remember you

singing to tom jones,

the grease on the table,

the way you made me mac and cheese,

the way you made me ramen

that i still can’t get perfect

and it bugs me that i miss the way you made it.

i still remember us looking through boxes of movies

and finding the best ones

and watching them while my uncle was at work.

i still remember our walks

and helping you water the plants

and helping you pick the oranges that were really mandarins

(i still remember you correcting me).

i still remember dog sitting with you,

and you sneaking me yorks,

and showing me around the bathroom of the neighbor’s house.

i still remember that halloween

that i dressed up at your house

and we went to the neighbor’s party.

i remember us going to the post office

and checking out the bookcase

of free books together,

and going back to your house

(back home back home back home)

to read them together.

i still remember all the good times

and the bad ones, too.

i still remember the summer i lost you

and the letters i wrote to you

in green and blue pens.

i still remember holding onto the movies we’d bought before

the summer i lost you,

holding on to them and hoping it was enough

that you might want me back.

i still remember all the days and nights and mornings i cried

that summer i lost you.

i still remember the three weeks before my birthday,

just after the summer i lost you,

and how you’d said you wanted to see me.

i still remember needing to take a breather

the night before the fall you lost me,

and a week before my birthday.

i still remember looking up at that midnight black september night,

and hearing the frogs in the canyon croak

and the mountain lions roar,

and sitting in the bed of my uncle’s pickup,

crying alone in the almost-cold warmth.

i still remember how you found me, and hugged me, and cried,

and said that i’d come back and it’d all be better.

i still remember that i came back,

two years later,

and it wasn’t all better.

i still remember the good times,

and the bad ones,

too.

and i still remember all of the plans

written in my poems

and i still cry

because they can’t work

while i still love you. and even if i thought

i’d ever stopped, i never did,

and i don’t know

how i will. because i still remember

all of the bad times, but the good ones, too.

ache for it

like a bird

for that

gilded cage

when i was younger

we would play monopoly

in the late-afternoon sun

on the greasy table

and make ramen and grilled cheese

and the old dog would lay at my feet

and i still see those days

in my head, so often still

and i wonder if you remember them, too

or if you were drunk then

and can’t recall my laughter

or our little jokes

and my bones feel too tight

at the thought of this

and my hands begin to hurt

and my heart burns like it’s on fire

and i feel like if i don’t cry i’ll just explode

and i feel like if i don’t let go that i might lose myself

but i doubt you’d know how that feels

and even if you did

we still couldn’t relate

not like we used to

(if we even did)

’cause the sun comes up

and you smile and nod your head

until the rain comes along

and you retreat to a crowded house

of memories

to forget about your sorrows and mistakes

in a bottle of beer

with a tall glass raised,

you make jokes

and i hand out empty smiles,

hope to forget

how it used to be,

only so i might let go of you

because of what it‘s become now

forget it all and wish

we could relate

like we used to

(but even then—)

(did we ever)

so i do my best

to blend myself away when

you’re around

(find i’ve bled on the walls)

(but you don’t even notice the drip)

(but all the others do)

and i

can’t breathe when you’re around,

can’t talk like we used to,

can’t hide my rain like

i used to

and i wish

that i could forget

all of the good times

where you were probably drunk

or high or whatever you might have been

so that you can’t remember

the little jokes

and the sound of our laughter

and the way things used to be

and the way things’ve turned out now

i wish i could forget it all

like you forgot me

(so easily)

(without remorse)

(without a care)

(without even a goodbye)

(i’m bleeding on everyone else)

(just trying to keep you close)

(so now i’ve got)

(to let you go,)

(to let you go,)

(to let you go)

tw; blood, injuries, drinking mention

i.

motivated by the

crushing weight of

the possibility of failure

it rings like bells toll

in my head, pulling and

pressing against my

skin (all consuming)

(crushing guilt)

(stretched apart)

(let go and pulled back out)

CRIPPLED, BROKEN DOWN,

spilled all along

all the things i’ve been

trying to protect

from all my mess

ii.

stars blinking out

(am i drawing away)

moon dancing round and round and round

(am i pulling back)

iii.

wish i knew

when you’re drunk

and when you’re sober,

when you’re stoned

and when you’re stone cold sober,

’cause all my dreams have you

slurring your words,

dancing drunkenly around,

spaced out and in a funk,

but the truth is,

i never could tell the difference

and not with you.

any difference that another points out—

anything my mom says, ‘yeah, she was drunk then,’ to—

just looks like a normal you

to me.

and what does that say

about all the things i miss

about you?

iv.

in my nightmares she and i and you and him and him, we all

sit around a table. her table, with the

thin layer of grease along the top, with the funny smell, with the memories.

and she’s drunk (but the kind of drunk i dream of her being—

the one she apparently never is) and you sit next to me.

we’re eating with steak knives.

and she rolls her head to her shoulder

and she says my name. and she asks me why i loved you more

than i ever loved her. and then you reach over and you stick your bloody

(bloody from a steak i don’t see, bloody, bloody, bloody) steak knife,

you stick it right into my hand. and i don’t scream.

i don’t look at you.

i watch her.

and she’s crying and i’m crying and i can’t see and then she’s

screaming. she says that i ALWAYS loved you

more than i ever

loved her.

and i wake up

and i can’t breathe and i’m clawing at my bed and i

can still feel your knife in my skin and i

can still hear her voice and i

can still feel you next to me and i

can’t breathe.

v.

and i’ve been running and running

and running

this whole time.

pulling back and taking that

sprint for a

finish line i can’t see.

i record my beads (22)

and all the nightmares

and all the pains

like a doctor on the outside. like someone

looking in, but

all from the

outside.

disconnected.

it’s summer

and my friends and family say

“why don’t you come out and play?”

and all i say back, as i duck my head

and set my pencil to the paper, is:

“i’ve got a lot of homework to do, mom, dad, friends, people.”

and i haven’t written much.

i haven’t drawn much.

i haven’t gone to therapy this summer.

i’ve gone to sleep well past midnight since, you know,

probably since the middle of april.

i’ve got to brush my teeth (the dentist says to take care)

(of myself.) i’ve got to exercise (my body says to take care)

(of myself.) i need to eat (my body says to take care)

(of myself.) i need to stop eating (my body)

and my dad said he’d prefer it if i dropped my summer courses.

and my mom said i only have so long to be a kid.

and my family said that i should have a summer.

and my friends said they want to talk and to hang out and to see me.

and i’ve got a lot of homework to do,

but my body (and my parents and my family and my friends and my dentist)

said to take care

of myself.

so i might just do it.

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)

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

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.

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)

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