my life turned into
a series of secrets
I swallow down
every time they try
to come back up,
a collection
of russian nesting dolls
taped shut so that
no one gets inside.
I have become trauma
packed inside intrusive thought
packed inside scar tissue
packed inside brain tissue
packed inside skull.
I have become
an ever-growing ring of defenses
so that no one can find
what is at my core.
for once, I wish I could be the poem
instead of the poet I’ve been.
rather than forming metaphors on my tongue
they’d be draped on top of my skin.
for once, I wish I could be the receiver,
instead of handing out pieces of heart.
as a writer, a lover—I seem to be destined
to give as I’m falling apart.
The Night Persists
lost:
innocence.
short hair,
big brown eyes,
almost always wears pink.
last seen in large, round goggles,
diving into ice-cold water
just to feel fearless.
if found:
please tell her
I miss her.
I am not fearless
anymore.
“it seems like you’re writing
the same thing over and over again.”
that’s because I am.
I write about this—
the sadness,
the backpack of melancholy
that digs into my shoulder blades—
because each poem
isn’t authentic enough.
I keep pouring out my soul,
but the emotion
gets lost in translation.
I write about this
because there is nothing
else inside me to dig up.
no more ideas. no more muses.
just dirt.
I write about this
because I need
to find myself again.
and every poem that comes out
is just another poster for a missing person—
the person I used to be,
the person I want to be,
the person I was supposed to be.
I will write about this,
over and over and over,
until I find them.
so, yes.
maybe I am writing the same thing
over and over
and over.
but I have no choice.
how else am I
supposed to find myself?
I am walking on creaky floorboards waiting for a crack—
waiting for something to give out underneath me.
I used to be reckless.
I used to jump and run and dance
(because you told me to—
but it was my fault for listening).
now, I know better.
I’ve learned from experience
that there are always splinters in the wood,
tacks on the ground,
a support beam missing.
the arches of my feet will collapse
and I will fall through.
one day
(it may be tomorrow,
it may be next week,
it may be next year)
you will see who
I really am,
and
(crack)
(crack)
“I didn’t want you to get attached”
(crack)
“this isn’t right”
(falling)
“I’m sorry”
(gone).
are you fine with this?
it is all I can give you;
bones instead of skin.
all is fair when love’s a war,
and every day is a fight.
tongues become the sharpest of swords
as they clash over wrong and right.
aphrodite and ares are playing their game,
mixing their potions for fun.
this love is a war and the battle is here:
kiss the bullet and load the gun.
come and sit with me.
we can watch the day grow dark
as we do the same.
he told me that I could stop if I didn’t like it—but that he knew I’d like it. it’s been six months and I can still feel his hand creeping down my side. I feel it tugging at my shirt, sliding between layers before I push it away. he said he knew I’d like it. it’s been six months and I still can’t sit on the basement couch without thinking of the day I said I didn’t want to do anything and he pulled my arm and led me upstairs. he didn’t want to pressure me, he said. it was just natural, he said. he knew I’d like it, he said. I just hadn’t tried. it’s been six months and I still shy away when anyone tries to touch me that way. because an arm over the shoulder leads to a hand tracing down the back. he said he knew I’d like it. it’s been six months and I no longer sleep soundly, dreaming about zippers and sweaty palms and being too scared to say no. I never said no. I said I guess, I said I’m scared, I said if you want to, I said I don’t think I can do this, I said I’m sorry—or I said nothing at all. he told me that I could stop if I didn’t like it. but that he knew I’d like it. it’s been six months and my brain still tells me I should’ve liked it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it.
three months into treatment
my therapist asks,
does anyone know about
your depression?
I perk up.
my depression?
I never thought it was
bad enough
or serious enough
or devastating enough
for a diagnosis.
I had myself convinced
I was making it up.
caroline,
she looks at me—
hunched over,
sitting on the couch—
why do you think you’re here?
question:
how will
my mental illness
affect my
romantic relationships?
what will happen
when I become
emotionally vulnerable?
will they stay?
hypothesis:
if my significant other
sees all the symptoms
of my mental illness,
then they will leave.
if my significant other
sees all the symptoms
of my mental illness,
then they will decide
it is not worth it.
they will decide
I am not worth it.
materials:
one (1) emotionally
dependent teenager,
struggling with
depression and anxiety,
who believes she
is unlovable.
I have volunteered
to be this test subject.
four (4) people willing
to let me into their lives.
each one will become
an experimental group.
they should believe
they can save me,
or fix me,
or ignore me,
or at least put up with me.
unlimited (∞) triggers.
these are necessary
in order to bring out
my symptoms.
unfortunately,
there is no control
for this experiment because
I will always have the sadness.
there is no way to
extract it from me.
experiment:
wait and see
how much
they can take of me
before they leave.
observations:
the first trial
lasted nine months.
he had the
same issues I did.
we were both
emotionally dependent.
we both believed
we could save each other.
of course,
we couldn’t.
the second trial
lasted less than
three months.
the breakup came
out of nowhere.
his final words
to me were
you worry too much.
the third trial
did not even last
long enough to
collect appropriate data.
he left too quickly.
inconclusive.
the fourth trial
is
pending.
conclusion:
my hypothesis was,
in some ways,
correct:
most people did not stay.
some people tried
to cure me,
and got frustrated
when they couldn’t.
some people didn’t
believe me,
and got scared off
when I had my
first breakdown.
some people simply
got bored.
but not all of them.
and I know
I shouldn’t rely on
love from other people.
but if someone else can love me,
that means it’s possible
for me to do it as well.
conclusion:
I am lovable.
all writers,
we seem to have our minds knotted.
a bed head of the brain.
and with ribbons of dark matter
braided into our thoughts,
we will never be able to
comb out all the tangles.
but still,
with pen in hand,
we brush and we brush and we brush.
my memory of you is bittersweet;
a sugarcoated bullet in my brain.
and when I try to think of the deceit,
saccharine drowns out all of the pain.
I miss the way your neck curves into jaw,
yet loathe myself for thinking that same thought,
for month after each month, I never saw
it was what I couldn’t give that you sought.
you promised me you’d never ask for more,
as fingertips, they traveled down my spine—
is it my fault for not knowing before,
if you’re the one who hid all the signs?
you took from me ’til I was hollowed out
yet you’ll always be the one I dream about.
the first time I fell in love felt like my first time behind the wheel of a car. it was something so common, I had seen it in movies and while walking down sidewalks, and I had ridden in the backseat watching my parents together for years. but once I was in the driver’s seat, face-to-face with another person, nothing about it was familiar. I had to learn all the different gears, the emergency brake, the rearview mirror. I sped through reds I didn’t even see, stopped short at yellows, stalled at greens. my steering was wobbly and timid, living scared of everyone else on the road. but eventually, I got more comfortable. no longer hitting the curb on every right turn. realizing when to use the brights and when to slow down. I could turn on the radio, roll down the windows, and switch to cruise control. the issue with getting comfortable, though, is you begin to see the speed limit as a guideline. you begin to see stop signs as suggestions. that’s what love does. so I forgot to slow down at yields. used the backup camera instead of looking behind me. paid more attention to the person in the passenger seat than to the road in front of us.
and I thought I’d be prepared for the first crash, I really did—I mean, they say it happens to everyone eventually. the films show them in slow motion with orchestral music in the background, and everyone ends up okay. but I never realized how painful airbags were until it was my head slamming into one. and I never imagined how the seat belt would dig into my shoulder, trying to hold me in place when my body wanted to break free. I never thought of the skidding tires, the shattered glass, the shattered hearts, the eerie silence after everything had calmed down. nothing prepared me for that.
and once you have that first crash, yes, you move on—you drive again, you throw away the love letters and meet someone new. but you never let yourself get comfortable. I spend an extra few seconds at every stop sign now. my hands shake as I hold the wheel. my foot hovers over the brake, expecting something to go wrong. every time I pick up speed going down a hill, all I can think of is that eerie silence. smoke rising from the hood, heart beating out of my chest, breath slow and shaky, trying not to cry. I am constantly stuck in that moment. wondering where everything went wrong, wondering how I was too blind to see it coming, wondering why I didn’t slam on the brake fast enough or swerve out of the way in time. one second everything is fine, and the next I’m just a piece of the wreckage. the only way to prevent a car crash is to never drive in the first place. and I guess that’s why I won’t let myself fall in love again.
when will love become greater than lust,
or power not lead to pain?
when will torture not hold hands with trust,
or greed not be part of the game?
when will writing not grow old and rust,
or failure detach from fame?
when will we realize our creations combust
because we are the ones lighting the flame?
play movie.
two shoulders against each other,
your head on mine.
next scene.
you smile at me from across the room.
next scene.
monday after school.
our legs are intertwined,
I’m lying on your chest.
you kiss my forehead.
rewind.
play.
you kiss my forehead.
rewind.
play.
you kiss my forehead.
pause.
. . .
rewind.
play.
you kiss my forehead.
I let out a laugh and bury my face into—
next scene.
it’s dark.
I’m whispering apologies into your shoulder.
I tell you I don’t know if I can do this.
and then—
next scene.
it’s light.
your thumb is tracing my spine.
you’re laughing at how I flinch at your touch.
pause.
were you unhappy in this scene?
were you acting?
you must’ve been, because—
play.
two days later you were gone.
end of movie.
main menu.
scene selection:
monday after school.
I know you don’t think of me anymore.
I’m sure your memories have gathered dust.
and yet I still find myself here at night.
you kiss my forehead.
pause.
. . .
rewind
play.
you kiss my forehead.
rewind.
play.
you kiss my forehead.
rewind.
play.
it’s just hide-and-seek.
he slipped away, now I spend
my lifetime searching.
mars:
I am tired of the fight,
tired of combat.
all it has done
is leave red on my skin
and make my own life
feel alien to me.
I have to decide:
this is where I surrender,
or this is where I finally
make peace with myself.
I’m sure you’ve been offered the world,
you’re deserving of each inch of land.
I bet you could sew up the valleys and mountains
with just the touch of your hand.
I’m sure you’ve been offered the world,
but my pockets have all been worn through.
so I’ll write you an ocean, I’ll write you a sky,
and hope that’s enough for you.
don’t mistake the freefall
for floating.
I did that once.
I never saw
the pavement coming.
last night
I felt it.
happiness.
I didn’t recognize the spark at first.
I had forgotten what it was like.
but then,
there it was.
a flash of light.
a second of warmth.
a glimmer of hope
when all I had for years
was darkness.
and just the idea
that this might not last forever
is motivation enough
to keep going.
somehow, you got into my brain
when you called me perfect, but
I couldn’t believe it
all the beautiful things you saw
were never there; for I was filled with