last night

when I closed my eyes to sleep

I saw an animal.

it had sharp teeth, but the face of prey.

it had cats’ eyes, but rabbits’ ears.

it had short hair, and legs like a deer.

its paws were too big

like a puppy who hadn’t grown into them yet

but sharper.

I could tell by the curve of its back that it was me.

My hands hold a book nearly 500 years old

My fingers brush my classmate’s

As he slides that book into my palm

His hand is warm but not soft against mine

As I cradle that book

I turn the butterfly wing pages

And look at a note in the margins

Written by a hand not unlike mine

Or his

I wonder how many hands have cradled this spine in the same way I am now

How many fingers have traced these pages

How many eyes have scanned this note

How many have asked these same questions

As this book slid into their hands

There was a time when I ran

faster than that red lab pup.

I scooped her up like a child;

I was one myself.

There was one June when I promised

I would learn to do a cartwheel.

I was more than content

to tumble through fields anyway.

There was a time when I lived

my entire life outdoors,

scaling trees and jumping wildly

into icy pond-scum waters.

Crawling out hands and knees,

up to the elbow in mud, soft in my fist.

I ran toward my father, desperate

to touch my hands to his clean skin.

That old dog is dead and gone now.

She outpaced me, but not for too long.

Copper faded to silver and too-big paws grew heavy.

Nothing more to be done.

No more swimming

No more running, tumbling

No more hands

No more time

The teeth are cracked from the socket.

The sister still suffers and sobs.

The school bus is always crashing

There is no pain, but the sound echoes.

There are tracks left over, shiny and raw.

One hundred heads slam against the seat.

The blood fills the mouth, metallic.

The blood still flows, dripping from fingertips.

There is always blood.

Gloved fingers fish the pearls from the back of the throat.

Shaking hands smash the blade to the tabletop.

Hitting the brakes, too little and too late.

Sealed away in a plastic bag.

Cell phone buzzing across the room.

Legs banged up against the bar.

I tuck them under my pillow.

I run toward the light of it.

I put my hands to my face.

At senior recital, my fingers skip and stammer across the keys;

just like I practiced at home.

I have a quick tongue.

I hear that it runs in my blood.

I say it's in my bones. In my salt.

Everything that's sharp and hard in me.

I run it down my tongue

and spit it between my teeth.

Words with barbs

intended to hurt.

I'd say I speak without thinking,

but really I run my mouth

for far too long and far too loud.

Until it's far too late to say

"I'm sorry"

and sound like I mean it.

I lean out the car window during the thunderstorm, hoping something will hit me.

I fall out of second-story windows.

I drive fast.

I walk under ladders.

I cross paths with black cats.

I break mirrors.

I spill salt.

I hope something will happen to me.

I open my journal and stare at the page.

I scribble words until it looks like something that could fill my empty spaces.

I speak until someone listens.

I scream at the top of my lungs.

I cry in public.

I don’t text back fast enough.

I smile and laugh through the pain.

I wait.

I wait for someone else to speak.

I wait for my cue.

I wait to be happy.

I wait for my friends to smile before I laugh at the joke.

I wait for the mail.

I wait for my cat to come back.

I wait for a phone call.

I wait until the last minute, then decide to try again next time.

I wait for the bus.

I wait to fall in love.

I wait for inspiration to strike.

I wait for him to catch up, sometimes.

I wait for someone else to jump off the bridge before I follow suit.

I don’t know.

I don’t know him!

I am a mystery.

I am incomprehensible even to myself.

I am unhappy.

I am simple.

I am going away.

I am lonely.

I am a selfish kind of person.

I am not the kind of person who has things under control, even if I act like I am.

I am trying.

I am not trying my best.

I am.

I am not.

I don’t know what to think

I think I am a good person.

I think I know who is good and who is bad.

I think that my pets are better than other people’s pets.

I think I am good at judging character.

I think I should be a better friend.

I think my friends will make better friends.

I think my plants will die soon.

I think I am over-watering them.

I think I will never finish reading this book.

I think I am right more often than I really am.

I think, therefore,

I lean out the car window during the thunderstorm.

I think I died last night.

My soul did not float up to heaven

like I was told it would.

I did not grow wings;

I did not become an angel.

I floated back and forth

between the kitchen and the couch,

my head full of water vapor,

a dense fog,

struggling to keep my balance.

I returned to the couch

each time to see my own body

asleep on the couch

curled up small and shaking.

The little dog laying on my feet.

When I woke up this morning

I gasped in a deep dry breath,

rasping and warm.

I opened my eyes

once, then twice.

I've found that dying hurts,

but what comes next is worse.

I can do it though.

I can come back to life

a thousand times without stopping.