there's a memory, buried deep

somewhere. i'm not sure where.

in the memory (as fractured)

(as it is), i've been

left behind in the

dark. i am terrified of the

dark. i won't be caught

dead in the dark. whoever has

left me behind

in this memory

knows that. i know that

they know. and, yet, the

only thing going through

my head in this

memory--aside from the panic

tearing at my skin and the

suffocating (other) feeling that

is swallowing me whole and

has me choking back tears and

holding a hand over my mouth

to keep quiet--are the words from

the person who's left me

behind: "don't be dramatic,

it's just the dark--it's childish and

stupid of you to be

so afraid of this." i have been

left behind as a

lesson, of some sort. i

do not know how long i'm stuck,

alone, in the dark, but i know

i get out, at some point, breathless

and searching for the arms of

the authority who decided

i needed the lesson. their arms

are not welcoming. their arms are not open for me. they ask me,

"now, was that so bad?" and in this

memory, i know that if i say

that, yes, it was that bad, i may get

put back in the dark again.

so i shake my head

in the memory and i

close off my expression and i

separate from myself for who-

knows how long. the memory has

many duplicates, adjusted over

time and different in each but

somehow still the same--the

same fears and hurts and the

same type of words and the

same sort of separation from

myself afterwards. i am still

afraid of the dark.

he’s golden like six pm april evenings

where the sun crests over the hill and

peers between the trees and bathes everything

ethereal and yellow and warm. his hair is

curled and tightly spun and it’s always so, so

messy and it makes me feel a little silly to think

about it. when he turns his head i catch a

glimpse of silver and, man, if my breath

doesn’t catch in my lungs. his eyes are

so pretty in the way that i can’t

remember what color they are, but i just

know that my memory of them saw them as

beautiful—i know in the way that i’d know

my mom’s voice anywhere, in the way i’d know

my best friend’s humor, in the way i’d know if i was

making my chocolate chip cookies right or not.

he’s golden like six pm april evenings and yellow

sundresses and worn yellow linoleum and

he reminds me of the earth like the way the

sun filters through the trees or the way the

fading daylight pierces through the windows and

passes through the ivy and ferns. he’s golden golden

golden and i think that i’ll always associate this

with him.

he’s tousled and messy and so, so, imperfect—

he’s tried so hard, had to work so far, and

he’s come so far, he’s grown so much, he’s

overcome it all, and he’s so, so sweet, and the

way he thinks makes sense. they say he’s weird,

they say he’s odd, but, man, if i don’t feel like

we connect so right. he’s imperfect and

he might be odd but i quite like him this way and

i feel it wouldn’t be the same if he was any

different.

he’s golden, he’s silver, the sight or thought of

him makes the breath in my lungs catch,

he’s so pretty and he’s so beautiful and i wouldn’t

change him for anything, he makes sense to me

and everything clicks and he’s golden golden

golden. he doesn’t like me and i like him and i’ll

never get beyond this point because

it’s just eight short weeks before we part for

good and i couldn’t take it if it all made sense

before it blew up in our faces. but he’s

golden, like six pm april evenings where

the sun comes rushing through the windows and

breaks through the ivy and ferns to bathe

everything in its path warm and yellow and

ethereal. he’s golden. he’s like that

and i’m just a girl, caught in the golden

sunbeams and caught with my mouth

wide open in awe, staring up

at it all bathed warm and yellow and ethereal—he’s

golden, golden, golden.

i hope no one ever makes

him feel like he’s not.

i guess

i never thought

i could be this much

we could be this much

you see,

there's more than lies,

more that lies

under passive waters

where all the colors

of the eyes of the oceans

have been bled out

and we're all just an expanse of gray

i like to tread carefully

but sometimes i

take the dive

and i choke, sputter,

but pain gives way to

that Something more

and you are something more

we are something more

if we only accept it

if we only accept it

here in the deep

where don't get me wrong, it's dark

it's like nighttime is squeezing my soul

but then i see you

and i see there's others down here

as you cry to the counselor

and we scream that none of us are heard

but maybe we can

hear each other

and i think i hear you

where water fills my ears

i hear you

through the ink-stained waves

and suddenly it's all teal and beautiful

i think there

are demons in here,

residing in frilly homes

in this silly head

some days they tear me to pieces

i couldn't say a

word, but i'm crying

in the car, crying in the

car, crying in the shower,

crying into my pillow, crying

but not for help

the demons tell me

how weak i am, and they win.

but

i think there

are sunlight fairies out there,

just across the internet,

on the other side of my phone,

when i can't see you

you fill in the gaps, the holes in my brain that the demons made

i wrote to you

because i needed somebody.

so thank you

for reminding me

that i am not weak, and they will not win.

maybe it was before that. i think i was 6 actually. inside a pew. inside a church. catholic, they say i am. i say it too - its just something i do.

but i died, yes. when i saw all the sculptures. all the plaques with the man. the thorn crowned man with nails in his hands and nails in his feet and blood on his head.

no tears though.

or sweat.

there shouldve been both.

wasnt he human?

i never knew jesus was god. i thought he was the son of. like my brother was to my dad.

he still is. both mine and jesus'.

ive never seen us in the same sentence but i should have because we've both been dead for so long.

i've been dying since i remember how sad i felt for his hands but especially his feet. i remember trying to measure with child sized hands how big that nail must have been. i shuddered at imaging how much it must have hurt him to feel it and maybe even hurt the hammerer trying to get the nails through the foot bone.

pain is loud, and i always felt for it. i also always was willing to take it. i cant tell you why. i did not grow up surrounded by pain. there was no lack of love. maybe that's why. maybe that's the problem. maybe thats always the fucking problem: i have lived my life afraid of the mere idea that somebody else in the world does not know love and it has made me die.

wait, maybe jesus, jesus, jesus, and i -

we are alike.

(dont tell god i said such a thing - i need to still make it to heaven to measure him up. measure both of them up. that father and that son)

i have been dying for such a long time but in all this time, nobody - not one - has come with a hammer to nail large nails through my bony hellbent feet.

i have been dying since i was young but my soul has gotten old waiting for some father and son to say, we've got a thorny crown for you.

maybe it's cause i'm no god but it's about time, in the history of heaven, that a goddess comes along.

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.

i think i was born this way. in a panic and

knowing that this is it.

i think i am a cat in my ninth life and

from the moment i crawled into the world,

squirming and skeletal, it was all panic.

i think i have lost something that cannot

be recovered. like i ruined the last eight

lives and am given one last

that i already know i will fail.

i think i am the kind of cat that no one wants.

in alleyways on fencetops under garbage bags,

the kind that ends up a pile of sticky fur

pressed against the asphalt of a highway.

i think my stomach sinks because i want

to be something more but am too afraid,

too sure that i am doomed. there is a

sinking premonition that my last lives

were ended on a desperate mewing note,

my claws grabbing on in denial. i think

of the pig in charlotte's web, and it echoes

in my head how he lived his life whining

'i don't want to die' knowing that he would,

he had to, he was a pig. but i think i am a cat

and there is no purpose. not even a price on my

flesh as something valuable, a profitable livestock.

nothing to love or be loved by. not an endearing

little pet to take care of. cats indulge in independence,

but perhaps inside they are bitter and lonely in the end.

i think i never wanted to be a cat, it is like being

trapped in a body i was never meant for. and the ribs

are restraining, the breathing is never enough and the

worst is being unable to speak. no cry for help that

a single soul would understand. here i am with no

language but panic, like the screeching of tires before

the inevitable car wreck. i think with eight lives behind

me, i can close my eyes this time and swallow the hurt.

i dont know if it is worse that i know what the metal

crushing my body feels like, or if it is worse to know

that i will never feel it (or anything) ever again. i think

i am a cat on my last life and you'd imagine after the first

lives i would not be afraid anymore. but i am a thing

of writhing panic and i think i was born this way.

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)

(and 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)