I woke up to a loud “72” in my head, my heart beating out of my chest. I need to confirm how old Uncle Arnie was when he died. Was he 72, or is this a warning about ma? Oh god, then I only have two years left with her…

I mourn who I could’ve been without you. But I think back to myself as a child, buck-toothed and curling into their palms. Would I have lost myself anyway?

Is the dog barking a warning? I remember he barked at this time-of-day last Tuesday, and we came home safely. I need to stop trying to find meaning in meaningless.

Closing the car door, I ask myself is today the day the uber driver will confirm, “Going to Faywood?” Yes, I'll answer. “No, you’re not,” and another man will pin me down in the backseat? I'll enjoy every second. God, I'm skin starved. But what if they're disgusted by my hairy legs? I arrive unharmed and wonder if next time I should shave just in case.

I’m 43 but I didn’t make it past 20. Where do I begin… there’s something wrong developmentally. Decades of pretending, acting out storylines and never living in reality, and she’s the reason. Will I be stuck with her? What if I never break free?

What if ma dies and I’m without an adult? I’m still a child, living in my childhood bedroom, with no control over this hoarder house. I’ll be responsible for calling a junkyard, and all the neighbors will know. Ma wouldn't let this happen to me. Repeating it over and over has to make it true.

I analyze how much I cry (twelve times today). I'm angry my dad is gone. I'm livid she gets to live. I'm angry my mom's body snaps and aches, with migraines every moment of every day. Why does everyone else get to live their life while she deteriorates?

I remind myself my aunt battled worse, and she’s still alive. Jessie’s father is 92 with health issues, but he's still thriving. This is enough to confirm my mother will not die at 70 or 72.

I worry the pale-yellow candlelight flickering on her ceiling might make me fall in love again. Maybe I could stay here, not only in this dimly lit room, but with her, even though I was ready to leave her an hour ago.

I usually murmured amongst my family oh so-and-so didn't look well. I felt sad, but it quickly faded. But next family function... the second I hear someone say my mother looks unwell, I will lose my mind.

Is my writing too restrained? Does it elicit any emotion?

You know no one cares, right? I say this to myself nearly every day, whenever my heart sinks. Knowing I will never dig deep enough to find my soul’s depths.

My body slept in my bed as I visited my deceased father. Gravity pulled me away from him, gently but instinctively, a voice whispering you can’t stay. I drifted away as he watched me floating into space.

My body slept in my bed as I pushed up hard against my skin. My body a brick, slamming into it like a locked door again and again, refusing to open and let me in. Unconsciously, I relaxed, sliding into my body—a meditation, slightly erotic, even, as I slid inside a warm glow.

Sucked back in like a vacuum, my eyes popped open. I gasped for air. My ears rang for a brief second, having to re-adjust. I sat up only to lie back down, staring at the violent lines swirling around my ceiling. My teeth and jaw ached.

Guided back to earth, I trusted my body completely.

I live in a junkyard called home,

littered with moldy memories,

black,

like the mold in our bathroom.

Storage units explode, unlaundered

and tagged

clothes blending as one.

I dust off my throat, scream

it’s my mother’s fault

for hoarding every string of her life,

hanging filthy lights.

I break away. The crisp air lifts me

into navy blue sky. Eyes closed,

I float, squeezing the night into my

chest

like my mother hoards my dead

father.

We lay bare,

wrapped in cotton

white sheets,

reveling

in the afterglow.

My heart swells,

meditating on her soft breaths

against my chest.

Lacing my fingers

through her curls,

coarse,

like her state of mind,

they unwind

under my touch,

unraveling as she does.

In my sheer green silk,

the wind is insatiable

for my skin,

breathing lightly

against my breasts.

The grass

cups my back,

trailing rough kisses

along my bare feet.

Drawing in the morning air,

I drink it with my coffee.

A young woman

painted with sweet,

delicate strokes.

Brown hair cascading

just below her

collar bone.

Emerald eyes gaze

into a rectangular

shard of glass.

A kaleidoscope of

colors—

cherry soda,

blue-candy

coated tongue,

lemon slush,

and

orange sherbet.

Lips curl into

a silent cry,

descending

into childhood memories—

Skipping down

Main Street,

tiny hand

in my mother’s,

streams of sunshine,

and

pizzelles at

my Nana’s house.

Childhood in my

back pocket,

I pop memories

into my mouth,

tasting of skittles.

I pull the blinds down, the moonlight peeking through to get a glimpse of me. I’m in a bra and panties, not my usual underwire and high-waisted underwear. A buttery soft bra cupping my breasts with hungry, eager hands, melting into me as if it were meant for my skin, but strong enough to carry my large breasts.

Running my fingers gently down my arms, I have a fleeting thought - would my touch feel this electrifying to someone else?

With the slightest touch, I seduce myself, teasing my breasts spilling out of my bra. Closing my eyes, I let out a whimpered sigh, and I wonder how the weight of another body would feel on top of me. Would anyone want me? Right now, I want me.

My pudgy belly is aching to be caressed, and tonight, my body weight doesn’t matter. Caressing my soft skin, I’m weightless, giving myself to the darkness under my cool sheets that wrap themselves around me like a lover.

Up, down, around, and behind, teasing my freshly shaved legs. The breeze from my open window breathing on me, goosebumps along every inch of my skin, an intoxicating combination.

I’m dizzy from my own touch.

I’m supposed to be working, but writing regularly again these last few weeks has ripped out the last care I had. I can fake it enough—complete what I’m supposed to, strategically hyper-focus, conjure up suggestions.

Pretending I care depletes me of energy. I’m sleeping in the middle of the day or crafting ideas for my next story when I should be focused on data entry.

I'm supposed to go above and beyond for a job I'm unfairly compensated for. I shouldn't have pretended my question about her title was innocent (when Miss Clueless was hired above me). I'm not supposed to covertly harbor this anger, but pretending I’ve held no grudges for four years has become an art.

Speaking of art, I’m not supposed to put all of my energy into writing. Writing isn’t supposed to take hours, it’s supposed to flow effortlessly.

I'm not supposed to be writing secretly, hiding it from my sister, mother, and partner. What would they say if they knew? Would it take googling for them to find out? Well, they’d find remnants, anyway—I asked the publisher to take down all my articles. Shame on me.

I want to be anywhere but here, so I'm watching reruns of my favorite childhood show. It inspired a writing project, and I’m consumed by it. I finally have the whole-body desire to write. I’m not supposed to write just to write.

I want to be anywhere than with her, pretending to love and care for someone I despise. What does that say about me? (What if I end up stuck with her?) I shouldn't fake love, but I don't want to be alone. Too bad I believe those are my only options.

Which reminds me, I should read my best friend's poetry book before our phone call tonight. Most likely, I’ll read one poem and pretend to.

Ben groaned at the thought of being alone with Morgan, who never failed to cause arguments between him and Darlene. She was constantly horning in on private moments or finding reasons to place a hand on Darlene’s shoulder or tuck her hair behind her ear. These were boundaries no friendship should ever cross.

In some odd way, the house seemed to creak in agreement.

Ben found Morgan tolerable at times—when she sat and listened to him vent about work issues while Darlene was wrapped up in family drama, or when she snuck whiskey to his home office, knowing Darlene hated his drinking. Little things that made her seem less insufferable.

But Ben couldn’t ignore the intimacy issues between him and Darlene that had begun when Morgan moved in. Darlene had been pulling away from him when he tried to hold her, but last night in the bedroom, her recoiling under his touch and the simultaneous crash of their wall photo to the floor, became his breaking point.

Darlene surrendered to a “Morgan is Morgan” attitude, but Ben refused, especially after last night.

So, when Morgan came home, he decided to take last night as a sign to act and give her an ultimatum.

“Hey Ben,” Morgan beamed, holding up a bottle of his favorite whiskey.

The lights began to flicker the moment Morgan stepped inside the apartment.

Ben poured two glasses of whiskey and handed one to Morgan, sitting beside her on the couch. Tension filled the room like another body.

“I’ll just get right to it."

Ben's knuckles turned white against his glass, and he downed the whiskey in one gulp.

He continued, “Darlene may defend you, but I refuse. You’re crossing lines, making Darlene uncomfortable, and causing problems between us. Step back or move out—your choice.”

The lights stopped flickering after Ben’s last words. Just as Morgan opened her mouth to speak, the walls closed in, and the apartment became an inferno.

(After Mary Oliver’s How I Go to The Woods)

I go to the river alone,

at night when no one watches.

I do not want to be seen undressing,

my flesh and clothes

hung on rough hands of wild oak.

I melt into moonlight water,

cool and gentle caresses

against my bare bones.

A ritual no one can take from me.

I take

big gulps of night air.

One would think

I have been starved of life,

and maybe I have.

If I ever held your hand,

if I led you to the river,

I must think you saved me.