colorado says you'll never see the 

mountains at sunset the same way twice.

the days melt like snowflakes, the air so thin

it tears if you're not careful. vegas says to lean into the

headache. the skyline hurts like a broken radio.

a city so green and greedy even the graveyards 

smell like a casino. california says

there's a graveyard for everything in the desert:

airplanes, wind farms, bushes drowned in

sunlight. if you're not careful,

you drive through one end and

leave your body behind. 

1. i still don't know how to snap or whistle or ride a bike. i've been to two weddings and one funeral, and the latter barely counts since the memory is blurry and fleeting when i can dig it up. i've lived in seven different houses and three different states. re-construction of identity is not unfamiliar to me. look around: everything we have is pulsing in the night like a beacon. like an anglerfish. 

2. i am young enough that my childhood is still sore. i wince if you prod it. all my yearbooks are kept on the bottom left corner of my bookshelf, half-hidden by an unused canvas and a box of school supplies, and i still don't know how to articulate why. i glimpse an old picture of myself over my dad's shoulder, and for a second i don't recognize my own face. the brief, disconnected judgement of my own appearance, the casualty that we afford strangers but can't seem to re-direct towards ourselves. when i realize who i'm looking at, my skin crawls. 

3. imagine the house you lived in when you were five. imagine that house, re-constructed, slightly to the left. it is your home. look, your shoes. your books. a family portrait on the mantel. it is not your home. the couch wasn't that stiff, you didn't choose that bedspread. did you? it is your home and it is not your home depending on what you trust. it is your home and it is not your home depending on how much you care.

4. even my most vivid memories don't feel as though they belong to me, but to a version of myself, re-constructed, standing slightly to the left. when i wake and glance at my clock, it is 3:36 AM and suddenly i can't remember if i fell asleep at all. something warped and residual is left in my head but i can't remember if it was dream or reality. i am me and i am not me depending on what i trust. i am me and i am not me depending on how much i care. at lunch, my dad tells my brother that there is no past you or future you, there is only you. and, i think, you can't remain a stranger to yourself for your whole life. 

5. i stare at my hands under the fluorescent lights. sooner or later, i realize, i am going to have to wake up. 

I'm fed up with     toppled fairy tales.

I am tired of     the redeemed wicked.

Sometimes the     dragon wants to devour the knight

with his mouth     as hot as a dying star. Sometimes

the witch has     insides made of hideous things.

So where does     that put us?

In my life, the     circles of people who understood me

and people who     liked me never overlapped.

I don't know if     that makes me a knight or a dragon.

I don't know if    that makes me a little boy or a witch.

And then, of     course, there’s you.

And when I     think of you I think of a

dark and deep     woods, with sharp teeth

like yellow     torches in the shade,

with the taste     of a winter mist so alive I groan,

the raw, wet     heat that gathers in your eyes

when you're about     to cry, etc, etc.

You were always the     wolf. We both know this.

What are you doing     here?

Wrong question,     try again.

Is the wolf such     a bad thing to be?

Closer.     If you are the wolf,

who am I?     Bull's-eye.

You know, we     could be soulmates in a twisted way.

What's a fairy tale     if not a horrified romance?

Needle and curse,     temptation and

cannibalism,     bloody apple and

mouth, wolf     and terror. Is that me, then- 

the one who is     afraid of the wolf?

trick question.     I know.

Everyone is afraid     of the wolf,

whether you are     a henchman or hero or

helper or victim     or witness or even

the wolf himself.     There is good and bad

and then there is     the terror

hanging heavy over     the whole world- 

it doesn't help me.

the sun brushes the horizon.

the horizon shatters into sea.

a dead seagull stretches on the baked sand,

flies warring over the eye sockets,

and in mourning, the world

melts into gold.

deer sees me notice her

in the woods and takes a step

back, her neck gentle like

a sculptor. some days i wish i had

sculptor's hands and with each stroke

of my thumb could smooth the world

into a better place for her. in town,

a few miles down the road, the sculptor

is kneading clay the way the baker

kneads bread, the way the painter 

kneads canvas with color, the way

i knead words onto paper. 

i watch kids at the beach sculpt sand

into castles, but they aren't castles,

of course, in the same way paints 

aren't a landscape and clouds aren't hearts,

but become so when we see it. 

perhaps that is the most remarkable 

thing about humans- our ability to make,

even just by seeing. deer bolts to her

fawn and i wonder if she knows

we are creating a world just

by being alive. 

EXT- THE PACIFIC OCEAN

YOU and ME are standing on the shore, not looking at each other, while the ocean chews on our feet. The horizon is shifting so fast we can see straight through it.

ME: So when you're here, are you still thinking about things like economic decline and how we're all gonna die one day?

YOU don't respond. I look around and notice that, like the horizon, the sky and sand are shifting and have turned translucent.

YOU: It's like we're living inside a ghost.

ME: Have you ever been to a place where it really storms? The air gets all heavy and swollen, and I used to feel so exhilarated when the sky started getting dark. They don't really have storms like that here. Some days it feels so overcast it doesn't matter if you draw the curtains or not. 

YOU: And?

ME: And do you remember last week when you said your head was on the way to the jar? It's not, and I wish you wouldn't say that.

YOU: But it's true.

ME: It's not. You're not Sylvia Plath and it doesn't have to be this way. You know, some days I skip lunch just to stay and talk you through yourself?

YOU don't respond. 

SCENE CHANGE- EXT- MY BACKYARD

YOU and ME are sitting, looking at the airport lights through the fence. The world is no longer shifting, but watery and runny. 

ME: I think this is worse than before. It smells like chlorine and my eyes are burning up. I know I can't blame you for who you are, or the way your head works, I just wish you did the same for me sometimes. (A long, pregnant pause.) You know, I hate having dreams. I can never remember them when I wake up but I always have this taste in my mouth, like there's something corrupted about them.

YOU: And this one?

ME: I don't think I mind this one so much. 

YOU: You know who I am?

ME: There are a couple people you could be. I'm not sure what that says about me. You know, the lights really are beautiful from here. I never learned how to open my eyes underwater but I think I'm getting used to it now.

I glance at YOU, and stop talking. For a second, WE look at each other instead of the airport lights. 

YOU: I'm not Sylvia Plath. But I think it does have to be this way. 

the first type of loneliness is when i start

to see my own face in the bumps on my bedroom

ceiling. sometimes

it feels like i'm locked in a marriage with

my own head; i come home, say "honey,

we need to get flypaper, they're driving

me crazy, and say what's for dinner,"

she looks and doesn't answer, she loves 

to look and not answer, she's an it, she's a

he, she's me, there's no pronouns for something that's alive

without a heartbeat. later she drifts into the

bedroom, sees me

try to tear down the rafters with my eyes,

says "we need to repaint this room, look how

it flakes where the walls meet." i laugh, say, 

"like snow?"

"no, like skin,"

and we both stare 'cause we can't remember

when this became our home. 

and don't you know,

the sky is a mirror when you live in a monochromatic

world. she points at an airplane dropping thirty thousand feet

from the air, 

says, "look, baby, there's us."

lightning spits from the mouth

of the sky, heaving in the

august heat; the horizon

growls like a dog, white

teeth snapping outside my

curtains at the heavy 

black air. earth's body shudders,

tossing and turning as she waits,

sweat clinging and eyes rolling,

for the fever to break. 

her back arches, veins steaming

into the atmosphere, and hot tears roll

involuntarily while we all

pretend to sleep.  

love, thesaurus definition:

synonymous for throwing rocks at the window

of the dying house in the woods just to hear

something besides myself. to look at the 

broken glass on the ground and think, 

"that's me." there is a metaphor here

somewhere, but don't try to find it.

when i see my phone light up with your

name, i am a thesaurus definition of the crickets in

the meadow past your house: noise, blast, buzz,

clamor, crash, cry. you'll notice none of those words are

actually the same. what i mean is, let's go to

the grocery store and talk about every time we

ever lost our parents in the aisles. how my loneliness

is the same as the squeeze of your heart when you

ran to who you thought was your dad just to

find a stranger's face. what i mean is, let's be birds but not

the singing ones. no, not the colorful ones either. let's be

ordinary and desaturated in our nest of the world.

i love you theoretically, in the way i love

the dying house, in the way i love the dying

city, in the way i love fire- in the distance or

else when it's all falling apart. still there's the

burn on my finger. still there's the airport line. and

still, the broken glass on the ground. 

8/4:

i’m a swarm, i’m static, i’m drifting awake at 3AM with

next door’s TV on and the voice of a soccer game

announcer weeping distorted through the walls. i roll

onto my side and the world groans feverish. the bedsheets

are black oil, sticking to my feather-cold skin;

the ceiling hits boiling point, melts and

tastes like plaster. i roll onto my back and the

room splinters loudly. 

8/20:

warm tortillas cinnamon french toast sizzling 

bacon ripe avocado food that makes kaleidoscope

eyes twist with color & taxidermy shops and death

smelling soft like fresh soil & the art

museum like cavers shining a flashlight

through my insides & the way my shoes sound 

hitting the tiles in an empty office supply

store & don’t you want to sing don’t you want to 

run isn’t this something even if it terrifies you?

8/29:

and despair grips my throat with blushing 

knuckles. and we’re manically silent. and the crescent moon

wanes to dawn. and you’re home but the basement’s

reworked and everyone’s cut their hair and

who’s gonna stay up talking till midnight

anyway? lately i wake from dreams with a residual

taste in my mouth. like i forgot to press “record” on

the videotape. i turn on my bedside lamp and tell

myself: it is august. soon it will be september. then

october, then november, and then christmas and new years. it’s

meant to be comforting. 

    ---

7/27:

and i wake with hot glue pouring upwards

from the floor and the TV on in the next room; 

haul my feet on the floor and the world flips 

like a coin. i wake again in bed, facing the other

wall, silence toying the air with a question:

well, is this it yet?