away—
like a bag of soccer balls, slowly
dumping out of a mesh bag into outer space
it is the most curious thing
my body
does not exist
from time to time
dad
what a terrible trick
Thoughts During Panic
flowerpots / crashing methodically / cartoon birds & big eyes / my optic
nerve / stuttering / you hate me / everyone hates me / a village
somewhere, hates me / I am swallowed / I am swallowing /
A memory horror / dirty hands / bad hands / greedy / the
coffin of my mind / and / gray matter / whispering /
short fires / mud of guilt / whispers again / kill
yourself / calm down / you are taking up /
too much space / overdramatic / making
it worse / drink something / but don’t /
feed the demon / I will ruin the day /
I will ruin you / don’t look at me /
shame / shame on me / hide /
find a dark / space / bury
myself in blankets / turn
off the lights / I will
sleep until you’re
all dead / always
feel like a kid /
hear my mom
“she just
needs a
nap”
At 9:15 p.m. in a Small Bar in Pennsylvania
for Donald Trump
Trauma walks into a bar, orders a whiskey neat
All hungry-eyed boring holes through my dress,
I am numb and cannot turn away when he snaps
a dove neck in half, does not flinch.
All hungry-eyed boring holes through my dress,
I cannot shake the desire for literal murder, after all,
a dove neck in half does not flinch.
At 9:15 p.m., I begin the 23rd poem about my rape
I cannot shake the desire for literal murder, after all,
every woman has written this story:
At 9:15 p.m., I begin the 23rd poem about my rape.
I begin it with: Violation is a man with nice teeth
Every woman has written this story:
Trauma walks into a bar, orders a whiskey neat
Begin it with: Violation is a man with nice teeth,
snaps a dove neck in half, does not flinch
It Does Not End
Dear nineteen-year-old self,
I hear you whispering to that flashing black star.
yes, you are ugly in that nightgown.
you are ugly in that silver moon night,
crookedly holding a margarita.
you are as ugly as the day you were born.
as ugly as a field of tulips bursting red
as ugly as glittering snow on evergreens
as ugly as laughter.
mary, do you understand what I am saying?
you are a creation, a gift.
tell them you were born for this life.
tell them your heart is a bludgeoned castle,
tell them you’ve got room, you’ve got safe stone.
when they say that you laugh too much,
tell them that your laughter is a skeleton key.
you laugh because you’ve seen so much dying.
you laugh because living is an absurd joy.
to laugh is to be grateful for salt
for sweat, for crying. you know this.
mary, I know that the kitchen linoleum
feels like an answer to a puzzle.
I know you lay on it, chain-smoking, wishing
you were a supporting actor in someone else’s life
or at the very least, a chipping floor.
something that stays in place; something not girl.
mary, stop trying to die.
I know sometimes you feel less than human
more like an unknown planet no one cares about
more like hot guilt
more like a catalog of trauma
mary, stop trying to die.
there is nothing better
than looking into the mirror
to discover infinite doors.
to witness your own bloom.
you are the best version of this story.
we’re all waiting for you.
FOUR
Bless this whole shit show
Spring Is Here!
i didn’t leave my bed today because
everything is so wonderful
just kidding i didn’t leave my bed today
because i am depressed.
my friend Doc said be ugly and love it
i stay up until 7 a.m. watching porn and writing
emails to people i wish would love me back. i have
money everywhere but i don’t collect it, it just sits in
“various accounts” & inner child me screams
about ice cream
inner child me screams about fish sticks and corn
dogs & why don’t i have a boyfriend. inner
child me is also obsessed with death. Dear
blood, don’t jump yet. Dear blood, I love you,
you are ugly, I love you.
Delicate Magic/Unhelpful Skills
I used to hear the word “love”
as in, “love will get you through
thirty years of marriage or
to the other side of IKEA”
but I thought it meant
whatever I need to be
to another person
whichever leg I need to hack
or habit forgotten,
I will kiss all your
empty cups
with bright lipstick, with a million
mattresses, with a spoonful
of teeth, will spill
over myself onto
myself for you
or, would you
rather me with blonde hair in the winter?
I can acrobat myself into you? is that love?
or is that just
some kind of space filled with space
like a
shadowkiss
a phantom tongue
stuck to a memory of winter
you asked me why I was crying once
while I was spiraling in shame
all I could get out was
I don’t know how much of me
is just space for you
I Don’t Think I’ve Ever Been So Lonely
I hate you. the burden of your leaving. I hate you so much. I hate that you left that stupid couch. left me to navigate the housefire scared and alone, you didn’t call me back. I forgot what your face looks like, you know. I forgot the shape of your teeth. the wide grin of joy I used to kiss.
I was a fucked-up bird. dead on the road trying to be better every day. I thought I almost got there. I thought I could be an angel. I lie next to the fireplace alone now and I hate it. I hate your windowed eyes. I hate the way you left. I hate the way you left the house, you left it so pristine. I walked with you in the woods, to the market, tried to match your pace. I could never keep up. I was always the shit show, a drunken morning. always trying to olympic pole vault to meet you there—
I don’t want you anymore.
You are dead to me, the cat is dead, I am a widow, I am a windowless
room, a hazard to all, to you. an ache of forgetting, a stupid whisper, the fervent beating of your ghost heart in the hall, a vial of lavender, your things are still here, my music is too loud. I smelled like a waste to you, I was so unclean, so dangerous, running from myself to get to you. look at this wreck, this mess, the complete disaster that love makes, turns two good people into one epitaph, god, I hope I forget you soon.
Forensics
I have begun making a list of all the things you’ve left unearthed for me to discover after you moved out. you left while I was gone & you have not le
ft a note. you have not left a text or any otherworldly space message that has been invented. There is no psychic trill in between my ears, no email. I have not been able to see you or hear you or touch you for weeks, I only have little clues sprinkled around the house like a torturous horror film. I am not laughing. I am screaming at your couch in the basement. HOW COULD YOU LEAVE ME. Do you hear me?? I think that you are not that cruel. you left one book for me in the kitchen with my name on it: a french dictionary. this is the only handwritten thing left.
you left the incense, your key, the garage door opener. you half made the bed—no sheet, pillowcases off. shuffled the furniture around so your stuff missing wouldn’t be so glaringly obvious, took paintings and hung other ones so the walls wouldn’t be bare. left one brown mug with turquoise inside it because you know it was my favorite, you left the bear jar because I drank out of it the day we met, you left the slimy red pepper in the drawer because I promised I’d take it out, you left the green powder in the fridge for safety, you took all the butter knives, left the games, took your good plates, left me the flower ones, all the tea, you left me, I can’t move, the bed is so cold.
Nighttime Activities with a New Person
clutch. breath as hunger. closer. more.
electric palm, the Right spot
nails into your back. soft. hipkiss. a wish for more hands.
all of your mouths wrapped around all of my mouths
hard. guiding you, guiding me, little bites,
wild teeth, warm neck, pull, tremor, pull again
the part where your lips are a city
your lips are a city and I am a gasping wonder
your lips are a city and I am hushed
your lips are a city and I am a choir of yes
I am a choir of oh, fuck
of how do you know
how do you know how to do this thing to my body
my body, nails indented like crescent moons,
the pulpit of a greedy mouth
the sweat. my thighs. undone. held breath.
clutch again. eyes closed.
eyes open.
Margaritas
My first collection of poetry was titled,
500 Tips for Fat Girls
It was meant as a sarcastic jab to our thin-obsessed culture
If I had a do-over, I would call it
500 Tips for Being a Human
Because when the press asked about it—they said,
“So what ARE the tips?”
And sometimes I would laugh
and I would say “MARGARITAS”
but really I wanted to say
No, I don’t have any advice
(aside from always put chips in your sandwich)
Honestly? Any advice about being fat is tragic
being fat should just mean that you get more awesome chairs!
that you get more hugs!
I watch TV shows with fat characters
Hoping for the story that never comes
The fat ladies are always apologizing for their size
They are never getting fucked
They are looking at donuts longingly
I want to watch the fat lady win
I want her to stop apologizing for being fat
I wish I could say: Hey, perfect angel cutie pie:
You don’t owe anyone shit.
Stop apologizing for who you are.
Go eat a fucking sandwich and throw your scale away
Work out if you want to, lay on the couch if you want to
No one else lives in your body
God Damn You, Sarah McLachlan
sometimes when i cry, i start to cry harder
simply because i am crying or
i cry because i know that in the world somewhere there are perfect little girls that are wearing fun tutus and singing christmas songs or because there are actual
shar-pei puppies that look like rolled-up towels
or because on the internet you can find
pictures of pigs in rainboots
because sarah mclachlan comes onto my TV and sings to animals who don’t have homes and
i cry because they call me fat even though i am fat and most of the time i don’t care but some of the time i do care because a word is just a word until it is not just a word,
it is a weapon.
i cry when there is no end and i cry because there is an end and i cry because you love me so well and i cry because i gave my love to other people before you and i cry because i used to cry alone, because i wanted to die, and then i cry harder because your shoulder is so soft, i cry because the sunset is so beautiful on the connecticut river, i cry because i am scared i am losing my mind, i cry because i’m on meds, or because i forgot my meds, or i’m crying for the fact i’m crying because i forgot my meds and does this mean i am actually myself, and i’m crying because i am not actually myself, or i’m crying because maybe i am myself and that doesn’t feel like enough
i cry because i’m human and i’m connected and there is immense sadness in the world. i cry because humanity is frightening. because one person consumed with self-hatred and armed with one gun can kill an entire room of people. i cry because shame propels so many of us. i cry because so many people forget how important it is to cry, are made to feel weak when they do. i cry because i want to close my eyes to the world. i cry because i can’t.
and i cry because there is also good. there is also chocolate cake and love and harry potter and the brilliant gasps of magic of holding a hand and also hammocks! i love hammocks! there are also first kisses and second kisses and love letters!
i cry because it is late in the summer, and all the fireflies are winking at me and the moon is out and it wants nothing from me.
i cry because i am full now and sure and say yes when i mean yes and no when i mean no and can love you with all of my breath, with all of my yes. i cry because i stand on the cliff of humanity’s magic, and i don’t want to jump anymore.
i cry because i am so well,
because i live so well
and how could one person
possibly be so fortunate
to live with all of this light
Today I Bought a Dream Journal to Be Less Sad, Am Still Sad but with Dream Journal
In the dream, I’m weak, standing on a lunch table, hoarse and screaming repeatedly, “feel something!”
to an empty cafeteria
Have you tried apple cider vinegar or rhodiola or lamotrigine or tomatoes from the garden
a slit opens up where I once cut myself and a flood of white birds race, keep crashing into a mural of the mascot, a whale, my heart
meditation apps or this book about mania or my friend is a counselor or the ocean or crystals or you’re not alone
tiny wings, rapid and panicked and hopeful, scream from my wrists in between heaving sobs, turn into a claylike powder at impact
a cabin in the woods or service animals my friend has a rat even or call your sister in japan or light candles or write it out
no one is there and the birds keep coming and dying and the house of dirt keeps growing along the wall, I can’t see the mural, it’s my fault
watch videos of survivors or go for a walk or pilates or call your friends back we miss you
the dirt looks like brown sugar now, is the size of my sparkling grief, covers the whale, I don’t even have my palms open, giving up
journaling or steamed greens or tarot cards or have you tried not wanting to die so much
Conversations with My Mother in Places I’ve Lived
Backyard of the Yellow House, 1997
This isn’t what love looks like.
I just want you to know that.
I know, Mom.
The Humphrey, on the phone, 2011
I cried for nine hours straight.
Will you please get back on medication?
I’ll think about it.
South E
verett, on the phone, 2007
I feel too much. I feel everything. I’m going crazy.
Why don’t you come home? You don’t look well.
She takes care of me. I take care of her too.
Dad’s Third Eviction, 1995
The dog next door is trying to kill me, I think.
Your father is worse.
I know.
Katie’s Couch, on the phone, 2010
You’re drinking a lot, Mary.
I’m training for my birthday. Birthdays are like the drinking Olympics.
Stop trying to make me laugh.
Nassau House, 2009
I’m happy for you. The floors are wood, even.
And everyone gets their own room?
Yes, and a guest bedroom. For if you ever need any help.
Massachusetts, on the phone, 2016
But this is my home now. Why are you crying? I visit all the time!
You are so far away.
It Is Time to Eat Something Other Than Pizza and Tequila
After a mostly sedentary two weeks of intermittent crying and listening to Tori Amos, I have decided to venture out as a fragile sad queer among the nighttime college babes and go to the grocery store. It is time to stop crying.
At the four-way stop after the bike path on Maple, there are a few streets that connect the farms into town. Sorry if I’m not explaining it well, I’ve never done this by myself. She usually tells the directions part. There is a cucumber farm around there I think, something aromatic. I remember her liking the way that it smelled. I remember the night we had to pull over because the moon was so rich and orange and full of love. We stood holding hands in silence, being welcomely swallowed by the open night, the smell of cucumbers, the last twilight of summer still warm on our cheeks. As I drive by tonight, the road reminds me. The stars start whispering,