prose

warmup series, #2

had to be funny ‘cause i couldn’t be beautiful, had to draw laughter ‘cause i couldn’t draw gazes. thumbs haphazardly shaped my form and sent me to the kiln without a second glance. it’s good enough, she’s good enough. won’t fit in. won’t stand out. yet i push at the bones of my face like the moon pushes the tides and wonder what her secret is, pockmarked and pale, everything and nothing. how do i make up for it, i ask? the clothes that don’t fit, the skin that won’t clear—how do i make up for the space that i fill? my debts are soaked in hair dye and acetone and benzoyl peroxide, and it burns, burns, burns. i pay them with words i’ve never heard, touches i’ve never felt, i pay them with singularity, with inferiority, with envy that ghosts against the glass of my heart. i bartered my likeness for jacks on the playground and came up with nothing. that’s all it is, really—the nothing. i can’t be forgotten because i can’t be remembered. can’t be choosy because i can’t be chosen. and, not for the first time, i wonder how much of me exists only for these reasons—if my heart is truly kind, or if i simply can’t afford to be any other way.

poetry

“awake?”

the greeks thought apollo held the sun

cupped inside his hands like a firefly.

i never went blind from staring too long

but my god,

i’ll never see clearly again.

there was a brightness to you

that made my eyes ache

even now, i feel it thrumming

like the steady pulse of a traffic light

stop. go. stop. go.

i plugged the boat with my own two hands.

anything for a few more minutes,

anything at all,

anything.

that word alone made candles cry,

my whiskey-raw throat,

my cellar of relinquishment,

my summer of eternity.

i loved you so much,

i almost understood you

but time only wears you away.

one day, something will grow within

the space you left behind.

i will give this to you, too.

poetry

warmup series, #1

september fell like a prayer

and i ask, yet again,

if it is the season for figs.

silence has stayed here,

watching my lips fade from

licorice, to plum

to lilac.

i drove us to the hill where

milk pitchers tip and

stars drop like anchors.

no one sees me.

no one ever does.

across the sky

there is voice,

swinging to and fro

like an iron gate.

silence places copper pennies

over my eyes

as i dream

of walking through it.

poetry

messenger

walk through this with me;
this field of cracked eggshells and rotting figs,
an interlude without end,
a heavy twilight that robes the soul.
our horn is rimmed with salt;
our wings are clothed in cadence.

this is our asphodel,
our sullen graveyard with spoons but no honey
and ghosts in our mouths.
we walk amongst pockets fat with silver,
wine-stained contingent tongues,
souls bound to charcoal and ash.

walk through this,
our constantinople,
destined to crumble but tethered by
gold that weeps from cracks in white marble
and mixes with magnanimous light
dripping from our hands like lycium.

our battleground,
where platitudes crack like bullets
against our eardrums,
where soil is soaked in copper
and the promise of sunrise dies
in the wake of a mushroom cloud.

walk through this with me;
this earth, this kingdom seed,
this eden that breathes inside of us.
there is no other way.
we eat the world raw;
if we choke, it is only on truth.

prose

ding-dong ditch

ding-dong. it’s the ocean of space between us. figuratively, literally, whatever. i’m dumb as hell and flinch when the bell rings, like the sharp clack of bullets that are just too easy to get ahold of. the eighteenth century widow that haunts my chest waves her scarf from the walk and disappears in flock of gore-crows when she remembers you’re not coming home. she never learns, still living with pennies trapped between her fingers and the taste of lemons on her tongue. she knows it’s not the same, but says it’s better to have broken pieces than nothing at all. she watches as the electric lull of lightning kneads the sky and the bell fades into nothing but the sound of waves throwing themselves to violent deaths.

ding-dong. it’s the blush of sunset, flaring like the tip of a cigarette before fading into the pallor of night. i’m reminded that some stars can’t be charted. nose to the ground, soul in the spaces between, making slacklines out of telephone wires and wandering the earth ’cause the only thing worse than leaving is sticking around. i’m close behind, bottle of spirits in one hand, butterfly net in the other. truth is, i don’t want you to think of me as someone who’s prone to flooding her consciousness with oak-barrel novocaine, so i wrap the bottle in brown paper and take solace in knowing you won’t be close enough to smell it on my breath anyway.

ding-dong. it’s the truth. my truth, that is. i shaved off pieces of my shadow and tied them in linen, pieces i’ve never shared with folks who know me a lot better than you. i wasn’t afraid, not for a second. you gently unwrapped them and dusted them off. held them to the light while i watched, massaging the bones of my fingers, tired from clutching them so tightly. does it scare you? i asked. should it? you replied. i don’t know, i said. i’m not what you’re used to. ding-dong. i never will be. and sure, we’re all sullied in some way, but i’ve never gotten the blood out of my sheets.

ding-dong. it’s the grief. i wasn’t supposed to feel it, and God knows i punched it hard enough to break my own knuckles. ding-dong. ding-dong. this one won’t run away. i alchemize my pain into art and it’s shakespeare, it’s sondheim, it’s vincent van gogh taking shots of yellow paint to kill the darkness inside him. ding-dong. i’m reading the book you recommended but the words bleed together like storm clouds. ding-dong. you stare at the horizon like a lover. ding-dong. hemingway said to write hard and clear about what hurts. ding-dong. i hate him and i’m sorry, but i can’t help it. ding-dong. ding-dong.

ding. it’s the almosts. the not-quites. it’s okay—i’m used to filling that space. or maybe the problem is that i don’t fill space at all. i’m a prayer that dimmed into sleep, a pair of hands that can’t settle inside themselves. i write about myself because it’s easier, and you’re forgetting me for the same reason. one time you curled against me like the shallow dip of a coffee spoon and when i tell you about my dreams it’s ‘cause that’s the closest i can get to touching that memory. see, in my head you’re here, you can’t break things, in my head you’re still the apostrophe pressed into my back. you laughed ‘cause my hair was in your face. i laughed ‘cause for a second we weren’t just two halves of something that can’t exist.

poetry

may in three parts

i. i don’t have a clue what love is. in my dreams it’s a seed that hums and blossoms through the ache of growth, but when i open my eyes i’m standing in a bombed-out factory shoveling sunlight into my mouth just to see if it’s true. maybe i’m soil that mingles with salt. i mean, the last man to throw that word at me drained the blood from my chest and bit my lips until they were swollen purple orchids that weren’t half as beautiful. i’m just now starting to like that color again.

ii. you didn’t look away when i showed you my hands. count the stories, i said; most of them end in iron and ash when i prayed for soap and sage. you understand, though, what it means to take what you have and turn it into something you want. to be pulled toward an anxious clash of bells. to have a heart that disobeys. you plucked truth from my mouth like cherries and in your eyes i saw the question: are you a girl who likes to be used?

iii. you’re warm, so warm, like the fields of asphodel after centuries of sitting by the river bank. the boatman’s oars sliced the water like knives and ribbons as he hacked a dry laugh and said he never thought i’d find enough change to get across. now there’s palm trees swaying in my chest, and it’s not like i meant for it to go this far but neither of us will hang up first so i lit two olive branches and said i didn’t care what i threw into the fire so long as it kept burning.

prose

benchmark

It’s not your fault that I always dress like I’m going to a funeral. My fists are caked with blood that isn’t mine and my feet drag like a pair of junkyard dogs slinking through an alley for something to eat. You loved the idea of me, but couldn’t conceptualize the person I am—guts, tears, and fire. You said I was perfect. I laughed in your face.

A man with that kind of Odysseus charm could get away with anything. It’s true that I never had to buy a tube of Maybelline concealer to mask my wounds like a sheet over a crime scene. Then again, you made sure no one could see the bruises you left behind. They appeared in subtle ways, spring buds rather than summer blooms pressed up against the glass. Isolation was the first to poke through the soil—or was it manipulation? I’ve tried to forget, but even Jesus wasn’t allowed to hold my attention longer than you.

When I pried away, you clung tighter. You came with a pitchfork and matches to burn me alive and snuff out any flames that you didn’t light. I remember your hands, harsh and greedy, sliding along the slope of my waist like I was one of your Batman comics and you just couldn’t wait to fold all of my corners. You whispered that my body was a church steeple and took my silence as an invitation to pray there.

After I left you, roses showed up on my doorstep each day for a week. My mother would fish them out of the trash and say all the wrong things, mistaking my tears for mourning. He loves you, honey, she said. It doesn’t have to be this way. Her hand felt like sandpaper against my back while the roses glared at me from the windowsill. Their blood-red blossoms would end up eaten by my garbage disposal.

A deluge of apologies could never suffice. I blocked your number; you bought a new phone. You told me my heart was black and swollen. I agreed, and blocked you again. My therapist told me I owed it to you; that you didn’t hit me, so it wasn’t real. I sent her number careening into the void.

Ticking clocks waxed and waned. I’m more tears than guts, more candle than fire, and my grief remains unchecked. Do I piece it together like a ship in a bottle? Do I auction it off to an interested party? Do I swallow it like a sword and pray it won’t slice through my organs? Do I bleach it? Do I launder it? Do I hang it out to dry?

In the end, I cracked it open like hot bread and shared it with anyone who cared to taste it. The friends you once kept caged from me came back, piece by piece, like a swarm of monarchs returning home. They drained pressure from the swelling and pressed lips against my bruises.

For I may have survived, but I had not been spared.