march 29th // worms and snakes and bones and head and music and time is going so slow, so fast. i miss you. i love you. can we talk?

and it’s already nine pm,

time passing

in ways that feel unnatural.

the songs—one minute,

two point five,

three minutes long, at most,

reads spotify—last mini lifetimes,

each ten, fifteen, twenty

minutes a piece

(pulling me through time

(like i’m unwilling)

(am i?)

and the breath in my lungs

feels held tight (breathless) in steel hands

disguised as ribs (as lungs) i feel like

stone. encased. there resides a snake in my

stomach (and is it me?) is it me?

can you feel it, feel this snake as it writhes,

can you feel it when you reach for my

soft belly (skin and flesh and blood and organs) like

a stranger reaching for

soon-mother’s womb?

can you feel it, honey?

and who have i become,

with eyes trained on the blood,

with eyes searching for the open spaces,

and do i want to know who she is,

this girl who looks for these things,

who sees these things and doesn’t look away?

and is this really blood that

pools in my mouth, hangs over my tongue,

or is it in my head

(is the pain radiating from my jaw

(the pressure of the weather—again—

(or is it in my head, too)

“seventeen goldfish,” i say. “you could fit

“seventeen goldfish in your pelican’s mouth, i think.”

(the snake is vicious) (it writhes) (i miss the sound of your voice)

the cereal is dry in my mouth (like cotton)

i feel like (clown in clown car)

(in the place where you’re supposed to fit)

(but you don’t, not really, not anymore,)

(not with this snake. not with your bones.) i’m driving

at sunset

but i’m not sure

who will be there, when i

arrive home—if anyone will be

i think i’m afraid of driving

(can hardly even sit in the passenger’s seat

(anymore. with the way i’ve become so

(scared. see the truck crashing into us, mom,

(even as we turn onto a new street

(and drive far away from it? don’t you see it, too, the way

(the cars turn towards us, engines louder and louder

(as they come closer—don’t you feel it, the way the metal

(splits your skin? the way the glass

(carves you up? because i feel it. i feel it.)

(i feel it.)

i miss the sound of your voice. the way

we used to speak. now, hardly every time we do,

my skin crawls. (i love you.) i feel bright green worms

press up against my skin. (i love you.) i feel the bright green worms

dig and bite, dig and bite—dig and bite. (i love you.) i miss

talking to you. (i love you.) i want the bright green worms to

go away. (i love you.) i want the snake to

go away, too. (i love you.) i want my bones

to stop their aching. (i love you.) i want to stop

being afraid. (i love you.) i like the sounds of this music, the way it

presses

against

my skin,

closer

than the

worms.

i like the way the sounds

push at my bones, push

at the snake. i like the way

they suppress the things i

feel and think (until they don’t)

(until they last) (for far too long)

i like the way i almost feel normal,

normal—like my bones don’t

hurt, like my skin doesn’t

feel so bad, like my head doesn’t

feel so awful. feel so small.

(i miss you.)

and it’s ten pm already

and the time has gone so fast.

writing this felt like

seven minutes,

not

whatever fifteen plus twelve minutes

is