Category: Poetry & Poetic Prose

Sunday

I open the windows and let the ants crawl in.

They cluster in the corner.

I ponder what it means to create safety for others. 

I clean within the four walls of my room, but keep your black hoodie where you left it. 

I spend the rest of the day searching where to find lavender cigarettes.

Monday

I am sitting across from you in your tiny apartment.

The sunlight setting on your skin makes me jealous.

“Do you want tea?”

Of course I do.

It gives me more time with you.

We talk for a few hours, but something has changed.

Our conversation is dissonant.

I go home alone.

I fall asleep pretending your head is on the pillow parallel to mine.

Tuesday

I collect tangible nostalgia:

mismatched teacups of all sizes and shades,

novels with marked pages, and

love letters on postcards from around the world.

Tuesdays are for treasures, 

like the ones kept in my black box:

a polaroid of my best friend,

a cassette from the 1950s, and

a ring you left for me.

I allow myself to time-travel before forcing myself back to reality.

There are errands to run, 

like dissociating in the frozen section of the grocery store.

Wednesday

Skies are gray as dusty bottles.

My front porch is chilly as phantom touches.

As December nears, 

I wonder how your wintertime skin would feel right now.

The lovers’ voices outside sound discordant.

Arguments are a waste of breath.

Suffocating on regretful speech is no way to win your lover back.

I call you and ask,

“If I apologized, would it matter?”

“You cannot undo the past.”

Thursday

I wake up on the floor of my closet.

There is comfort in close proximities. 

I tried to outgrow the memory of you, but

I am stubborn;

constantly thinking of you and what you may be doing.

I stumble on ink,

constantly crossing out words until the page is covered with scratched cursive. 

Nothing I write means anything to you.

Nowadays, it barely means anything to me.

Friday

There is the smell of coffee beans in the kitchen,

roses wilting on the dining room table, and

laundry in the hamper waiting to be put away.

I call you, but your voice sounds jumbled and electronic. 

It is a privilege to be able to touch the one you love. 

I make dinner for one. 

Outside, there is a precarious swing and a bottle of rosé. 

I spend the rest of the night trying to find the bottom of the bottle.

Saturday

We are in an empty parking lot beside the sea.

The scent of salt surrounds us. 

In the distance, misfits laugh and glass bottles clink.

I know Saturdays as friendly faces and bonfires.

While I dislike the sand and uncertainty, 

I love how fire lights your face, making your 

eyes as gold as raw honeycombs. 

I make this sight a memory.

I carry it with me.

Featured art: “Window Dreamin’” by Nicolas Martin.

When you looked at me with the eyes of an executioner,
I told you to get out of my life, but was devastated when you left.
I know the cruelty of my words best.
I am the one who lives with their repercussions.

The moon's gravitational pull affects the ebb and flow of water.
Humans primarily consist of water.
Possessing such knowledge, it is safe to infer that 
the moon guides me towards you.

Even when we were distant, you were persistent.
That consistency is what I love about your existence, but
maybe there is good in goodbye.

Featured art: Unknown

I drink for our loss.
May the scent mask the traces of yours left on my pillow.
May the taste burn the sweetness of your mouth out of mine.
May the bottom of this bottle (temporarily) erase unwanted memories.

I drink for my regrets.
I wish we had never met.
Sharing intimate moments with someone else feels like committing a crime.
The punishment is a lifetime sentence of remembering how our love died.

I drink for my body.
I gasp for breath at the intrusive thought of you touching me.
We share the same ink in our arms.
I want to rip my skin off.

I drink for my future.
It is permanently affected by your actions.
Will I ever fully trust another human?
I cannot trust myself.

I drink for everyone who has a tombstone in their heart.
May the name fade faster due to forgiveness.
May the grave deteriorate due to compassion.
May you someday stop visiting it and
mourning the person you once loved.

Featured art: “1; 20 More One Mores” by Adam Lupton.

A toast to my first home being a small closet.
Is this why I am comfortable suffocating?
Everything makes me hold my breath until
I am told to breathe.

A toast to the hood I grew up in and
the conflicting personality that it gave me.
I am a walking contradiction;
chaotically cautious or cautiously chaotic.

A toast to the little boy with big, brown eyes.
I was so starved of compliments that I ate his insults.
Too young to understand his taunts,
I grew toxic to myself.

A toast to the manners of my first boyfriend and
how we changed both apart and together.
On and off, we cycled through being both
the best and worst versions of ourselves.

A toast to my twin flame and how
she made me fall in love with life.
Without her, I endlessly love.
Without her, I endlessly mourn.

A toast to my parents. 
You taught me what incompatibility appears as.
I know what falling out of love looks like.
I know that you are falling out of love before you do.

A toast to the man that I thought that I would marry.
If I am being honest, 
I cannot imagine a world where we are apart.
Can we go back to the start?

A toast to my body.
I thank it (forgive it) for (not) properly working.
It is a visual diary.
It is both no one's and everyone's.

A toast to life.
"Life is too important to take seriously."
I do not worry over creased, dirty sneakers because
each fault comes with a memory.

A toast to death.
It is the only certain that I believe in.
I try to turn fear into excitement.
More often than not, I fail.

A toast to the person reading this.
I see you. 
You are seen.
Do you see yourself?

Featured art: Unknown

They ask me dozens of questions.

What are your symptoms?

How long have you been experiencing them?

Do you have any preexisting health conditions?

Do you have a menstrual cycle?

Are you pregnant?

Are you allergic to any medications?

Who is your primary physician?

What insurance do you carry?

I try to respond, but it costs all of the energy I have left to mumble, “Yes” and, “No.”

Dyspnea feels like my body committing treason against itself.

Did you take anything tonight?

Besides oxygen? No, but I could really use an Ativan right about now.

Your blood pressure is perfect.

Your EKG is normal. You have no heart-related irregularities.

Your oxygen levels are 98. You have no trouble inhaling enough oxygen.

Then why does my heart feel like it is about to explode and that there is no oxygen left in the room?

Are you an anxious person? You seem very anxious talking to us.

Anyone would be anxious if they felt like their body became a homicidal traitor overnight.

I have been to the ER 20 times within three years and am desensitized to IVs, repeated questions, anti-anxiety medication that does not help, and being referred to specialists.

Pain level?

Depends on the day.

Discomfort level is always a 10.

We need to do a pregnancy test.

You’re not pregnant.

You’re clear for medication.

You have beautiful veins.

The nurse sets up the IV and I do not flinch.

I can only gasp for air as nurses’ faces blur before me and white coats waltz.

It’s time for the chest x-ray.

It’s time for the CT scan.

Have you ever had a pelvic exam performed?

We’re going to do a vaginal ultrasound.

In the ER, my heart is heavy concrete holding me hostage to the hospital bed.

My lungs deflate like popped balloons.

The more I come back, the more they remember.

Yes, you’re the girl with the shortness of breath.

I remember you.

The doctor smiles at the nurse.

I agree, it is funny, but for different reasons than mine.

They remember me as the anxious girl who cannot catch her breath while their faces were engraved into mine instantly as heroes who were supposed to save me.

If I wanted to be an actor, I would have moved to Hollywood instead of the hospital.

Yet, every time, I perform my lines for the nurses and doctors.

Every time, I get better at describing how to take me seriously.

I find myself praying after years of religious absence for a miracle.

“God, give me the health I once took for granted. God, give me the strength to persevere. God, give me the ability to breathe easy again. God, are you even listening? God, please, help me.”

I wish for an exorcism; for whatever feeding off of my physiology to be cast away. Lately, every 11:11 wish once dedicated to silly, useless things has been turned towards me.

I have become some kind of ghost girl dissociating down hospital halls. Fluorescent lights cast halos around doctors rushing carts past me. A doctor tells me,

Always check the mirrors. We look at them to check who is coming around corners.

Another pee test. Another IV. More blood work. Another x-ray.

Face me.

My body obeys before I process the command.

I twirl in a stiff, starch hospital gown.

I am used to being violated in hope of finding a diagnosis or relief or a glimpse of my life before I forgot how to breathe.

Often, I mourn the person who I was before I became ill.

They listen to my heart and I wonder what they hear.

All that I hear is the ticking of my life being lost as I waste away.

My irregular heartbeat is a never-ending reminder that

I am going to die.

Death offers no solace besides its certainty. 

Featured art: “24/7” from the School of Nursing Collection by Gregg Chadwick.

If only my body was one of a Ballerinas.
I could form a perfect arabesque.
I would comfortably stand straight, 
gracefully lift my leg into a battement and
easily push myself into a jeté.

If only my body was one of a Yoga Instructors.
I could stretch into various poses.
I would contort my body into a halasana,
roll myself upright into a astavakrasana and
relax into a savasana.

If only my body was one of a Nutritionists.
I could be full of information about exactly what my body needs.
I would rarely grow sick due to a proper diet—
fueling my body with the five food groups.
Would I miss the pit in my stomach?

If only my body was one of a Doctors.
I could find the cause of my Dyspnea.
I would be able to explain my irregular heart-rate.
I would not fear the unknowns of my body for
I would understand and be able to explain every little sensation that sets me off.

If only I trusted that my body is not a traitor.
When my breathing shudders—at least I breathe.
When my muscles tense—at least I feel them.
My body wants to succeed.

Featured art: Unknown

I put on my denim jacket,
the one with the hole above the front pocket.
There was a weight attached to the jacket, or
a heaviness so burdensome that I had to tear it off.

The collar smelled of
gold Marlboros, bonfires, and vanilla perfume.
All these scents, once ambrosial, are now
reminders of people I become insane by remembering.

Along the lining of the inside,
marks made from people I no longer know 
transport me to a winter that happened years ago.
The denim is so worn that it cannot keep me warm.

I bought this jacket before
I forgot that winter is not supposed to be 
a tangent universe, or
a dissociation spell where one has to relive their traumas.

When I owned this jacket,
I lent it to the bodies of people I treasured.
There is a vodka stain from my best friend and
a sharpie stain from a previous lover.

Now, the jacket hangs haunted and heavy,
weighted down by the memories it contains
in a closet covered in cursive apologies.
Someday, I hope to outgrow it.

Featured art: Unknown

I mastered the game of hide-and-seek.
I hid. You sought. I was never found.

Whenever you became a stranger or
threatened me with a red and blue waltz,
I escaped to concrete carousels.
Round and around, 
I roamed until I was lost to both you and myself.

"You cannot find me if I am lost to myself."

I knew faltering streetlights as well as they knew my screams and cries.
I befriended absent skies and fawn in the nearby woods.
I asked them if I could become a red giant or
a refugee of the forest, but
they did not understand their reflection begging for assistance.

I was a dying star ready to explode;
exhausted by white lies, apologies, and empty promises.
I was a deer in headlights except I did not freeze.
I ducked behind parked cars or became engulfed in bushes.

Eventually, I returned to what was once home.
If I was lucky, my seeker would already be asleep.
Now that I am safe in the light, I wonder why I cannot easily breathe.
Perhaps I am still running from the dark.

Featured art: “Deer in the Woods” by Elizabeth Strong.

Just under the sea's surface,
an angelic bloom of jellyfish stay.
Like them, I am drawn by the current,
pushed and pulled in various directions.

You warned me not to get stung.
Now, I have a scar, or
another reminder of my recklessness.
Another mistake.

Some jellyfish can heal hurt or regenerate lost parts of themselves.
Humans are like jellyfish. 
When humans lose parts of themselves, 
they fill the absence.

Sea wasps, the most deadly, kill invisibly. 
Your words, the most beautiful, do the same.   
I think of you how I think of sea wasps.
One sting from you is fatal for me.

Featured art: Unknown