excitement growing with
every shaky vowel and consonant.
and I picture john,
just shy of twenty,
studying to be a doctor,
but always being drawn
back to writing.
then
I remember myself.
nine years old,
writing my first stanza
about a butterfly.
I can see the piece of paper,
the eraser shavings.
I can feel each puzzle piece
shifting into place.
I remind myself that,
in the beginning,
there were no pedestals.
there were no crowns.
just emotions.
I remind myself that poets
always have been
just
people
who think too much,
who feel too much,
who soothe their aches
with the only thing that
makes sense:
words.
I have no pedestal.
I have no crown.
this—
this is the only thing
that makes sense to me.
I kissed your birthmarks—
little islands on your skin;
new, discovered lands.
I know you want to drown yourself in the sadness.
it’s comforting to let it surround you,
heart pulsing, lungs aching
as you feel it overwhelm every inch of your skin
and diffuse into your cells.
but I hope you know sadness
is a revolving door.
once you’re in it,
letting the sadness take you around
and around and around,
it won’t stop on its own.
you’ll just keep going around
and around and around.
that’s why you need to
fight to stop it,
fight to stop spinning,
fight to get out.
get out of that infinite sadness.
get yourself out of that goddamn door.
revolving doors feel relentless,
but I promise there is an exit,
a surface to the sadness
you are drowning in.
there is oxygen waiting
to fill your lungs
and diffuse into your cells.
saturn:
the wounds have healed
and the scars are fading.
my skin is pale
and smooth.
I’ve started to confide
in my closest friends.
they embrace me.
support me.
surround me.
for the first time,
it is scarier to think
about going back
than to think
about moving forward.
our first night together,
we talked until
birds began to sing.
we were huddled together,
under the comforter,
discussing the formation
of the universe.
completely unaware
that when our fingers first touched,
it was the big bang
all over again.
completely unaware
of the infinite universe
that was just beginning
to form between us.
the closet
is more of a prism
than anything.
it’s okay if you
haven’t come out yet.
you are still refracting.
I have been called brave
for taking a saw to my rib cage
and putting my heart on display.
for putting a spotlight
on my chest cavity
and calling audiences to look.
but I was not brave
when I started writing.
writing was not a stage
or a museum exhibit—
it was an echo chamber,
a way to talk to someone,
even if that someone
was my own voice
bouncing back at me.
that was not brave.
that was survival.
but it was brave to keep writing
once people were listening.
it is hard to admit something to yourself.
it is harder to admit something
to your friends
family
teachers
future partners.
it is hard,
but I’m doing it.
and that is bravery.
september 13, 2015
my sixteenth birthday
my mom asks if
I want to get my learner’s permit
and drive for the first time.
I say no
and ask her to take me
to a blood drive instead.
there are scars inches
from where the nurse
pushes the needle in,
but that’s all they are now:
scars.
I am seven months
clean of self-harm,
and I am finally losing blood
for the right reason.
my veins are only opening
to help fill someone else’s.
he tells me,
you are a complicated
person to love.
I know,
I reply.
I struggle with it
every day.
there are times that
I am doing so well,
I stop taking my meds.
and suddenly I feel like
the light switch
has flipped off.
and suddenly I feel like
I am not better because
of my hard work.
and suddenly I feel like
a fraud.
I try to remind myself
that the brain is an organ,
that this is a disease,
that diabetics need insulin
and no one thinks of that
as cheating.
I try to remind myself
that this is not a boost,
this is a treatment.
so I swallow my pride
along with my pills
and let myself
get better.
somewhere
there’s a mess of pillows.
fresh white sheets and
the comforter pulled close,
and you—
always you.
somewhere
the clock always reads
three a.m.
the sun never comes up,
and the birds are silent.
I never have to kiss you goodbye.
somewhere
the entire universe condenses
into a bedroom on the second floor.
nothing exists beyond the white walls,
and all of space and time
is watching.
somewhere is not here.
here
the sheets fall off the bed,
the clock keeps moving,
days pass by,
the calendar pages flip.
here
I put on my shoes and
close your door—quietly—
to not wake you.
but you should know that in my dreams,
we are always somewhere.
half asleep,
skin to skin,
the world holding us gently in its palm
for just one more second on repeat,
before the light hits your window.
the mess of pillows.
the fresh white sheets.
the comforter pulled close.
and you—
always you.
uranus:
sometimes people distance themselves
when I mention my mental illness.
they look at me
like I am a box of matches
ready to burn at any second.
they look at me
like my world is
tipped on its side,
revolving the wrong way.
I think their heads
are just tilted
from so much
skepticism.
something about us
always felt so
safe.
you could have
caressed my face
with knife in hand,
and I would have
leaned in closer,
and fallen asleep.
something about us
always felt so
comfortable.
I watched us
go up in flames.
and all I did was
warm my hands
in the glow
and smile.
but after all, the scars will fade.
your skin will heal and be remade.
the clock will hit twelve, the patches will mend,
summer will come back around again.
the sun will rise and minds will change,
constellations slowly rearrange.
dusty coal will turn to diamonds that shine,
for all of our wounds will be healed with time.
not all humans
are consumers.
some are predators.
into your flesh
in order to grow taller,
and not care about
the body count in their wake.
some are decomposers.
they will wait
until you fall down
in order to feast
on what’s left of you.
they do not grieve.
only rejoice.
but some,
some are producers.
they will trade you
sunlight for love
and then offer you both.
they will bloom
whenever you smile,
and smile when they
get to see you bloom.
you can either
make a graveyard
or a garden.
you can either
rot
or grow.
sometimes I think we will
always come back to each other.
not by chance,
but by choice.
there is no magnetic pull,
no right time
or right place.
the stars are not aligned for us.
so we reach our hands
up to the night sky
and rearrange them ourselves.
depression now feels
like an old sweater,
worn in and frayed
at the edges.
sometimes I am cold
and lonely,
and try to put it
back on.
but the sleeves
are too short.
it’s tight around
the middle.
the material itches
in a way I don’t remember.
I’m not ready
to throw it out just yet.
but
the sadness isn’t as
comforting as it used to be.
I’m made of four dimensions—space and time, heart and soul
I am my own universe; infinite and whole
my skin is not a boundary, I’m too much to be contained
more than person, more than words, I cannot be explained
my thoughts fill up the room as they seep through all my pores
they’ll leak out all the windows; they’ll break down all the doors
so don’t you dare define me, I am made up of unknowns
you cannot hold me back, I am not caged in by my bones
The Sun Rises
lost:
depression.
tired eyes,
raw nail beds,
always in a baggy sweater.
last seen the other day
for a split second in math class,
telling me she missed me.
if found:
please tell her
she is not welcome here.
she does not control me
anymore.
you are holding
two hundred pages
of cellulose pulp
and printer ink.
you are holding
two hundred pages
of memories.
every doctor’s visit
trip to the mall
phone conversation
softball game—
it’s all here.
have you ever
held your life
in your own
two hands?
because I have.
you are holding
my existence
in the palm of your hand.
and I don’t know
if that’s freeing
or terrifying.
you can’t root yourself
in the ground, hoping the world
will grow around you.
you were made to do
more than hide in the shadows
of another’s leaves.
sometimes
my thoughts are so jagged
they chip my teeth
on their way out
of my mouth.
I used to
swallow sandpaper,
wear down my vocal cords,
smooth over rough edges
to make sure
I did no damage.
now, I leave my words sharp.
I attach them to
the nocking point
at my larynx
and pull back the string,
so that when they
hit the target,
they pierce.
watch as they
fly through the air.
ready.
aim.
an apology to every psychiatrist I fired along the way:
the first one:
I was only twelve when we met.
I spent our first sessions
refusing to speak out of spite
and our last sessions
pretending to be okay.
I told my parents you were crazy.
but it wasn’t your fault,
it was mine.
the second one:
there was a basket of lollipops
on the table in your office.
I organized them by color
instead of paying attention.
I told my parents you were annoying.
but it wasn’t your fault,
it was mine.
the third one:
you were the first to
prescribe me medication,
and that scared me,
because that meant
I actually had an issue.
I told my parents you were mean.
but it wasn’t your fault,
it was mine.
my mom jokes that
I’m picky about psychiatrists,
but really, I just
wasn’t ready to get better.
I wasn’t ready to believe
I deserved to be happy.
I wasn’t ready to admit
there was a problem
in the first place.
I am still learning
to let myself grow.
I am still learning
that it is not selfish to let myself become
the person I am meant to be.
neptune:
I used to think that the opposite
of darkness was sunlight,
that the opposite
of depression was happiness.
&nbs
p; now I know that
during the day
there are clouds and rain and snow.
outside of depression
there is pain and joy and anger.
after years of flood and drought,
what a relief it is
to see the tide rise and fall
again.
to bask in blue
without being consumed by it.
to swim
without wanting to drown.
what a relief it is
to live a life
I am excited
to wake up to.
inhale.
exhale.
your body is
always working
to stay alive,
even if you’re not.
fall asleep.
wake up.
the brain knows
when the sun is
supposed to rise,
when your eyes
are supposed to open.
oxidation.
reduction.
newton’s third law
states that every action
has its opposite,
its equal,
its pair.
crescendo.
decrescendo.
you will rise with
the symphony and
fade out with the
audience’s applause.
creation.
destruction.
there is only
so much time
before nothingness
is restored.
bask in this imbalance
for as long as you can.
this is not a journey
from sad to happy,
from bad to good,
from total darkness to white light.
there is no destination,
no ending,
no point where I cross the finish line
and collect my blue ribbon.
I’m learning to live again.
I see passion and joy and love
where there used to be nothing.
but that doesn’t mean
I untie my shoes.
it just means I have
another reason to keep putting
one foot in front of the other.
I look at him out of
the corner of my eye,
past the rim of
my glasses.
my brain reminds me
that I am a silent tornado
he does not deserve
to get caught up in.
but then I remember
I am different now.
a little older.
a little more independent.
a little more secure.
this time,
I don’t need someone