23 reads

when i drop it, what glass will shatter (what parts of us will bleed?)

tw; blood, injuries, drinking mention

motivated by the

crushing weight of

the possibility of failure

it rings like bells toll

in my head, pulling and

pressing against my

skin (all consuming)

(crushing guilt)

(stretched apart)

(let go and pulled back out)

CRIPPLED, BROKEN DOWN,

spilled all along

all the things i’ve been

trying to protect

from all my mess

ii.

stars blinking out

(am i drawing away)

moon dancing round and round and round

(am i pulling back)

iii.

wish i knew

when you’re drunk

and when you’re sober,

when you’re stoned

and when you’re stone cold sober,

’cause all my dreams have you

slurring your words,

dancing drunkenly around,

spaced out and in a funk,

but the truth is,

i never could tell the difference

and not with you.

any difference that another points out—

anything my mom says, ‘yeah, she was drunk then,’ to—

just looks like a normal you

to me.

and what does that say

about all the things i miss

about you?

iv.

in my nightmares she and i and you and him and him, we all

sit around a table. her table, with the

thin layer of grease along the top, with the funny smell, with the memories.

and she’s drunk (but the kind of drunk i dream of her being—

the one she apparently never is) and you sit next to me.

we’re eating with steak knives.

and she rolls her head to her shoulder

and she says my name. and she asks me why i loved you more

than i ever loved her. and then you reach over and you stick your bloody

(bloody from a steak i don’t see, bloody, bloody, bloody) steak knife,

you stick it right into my hand. and i don’t scream.

i don’t look at you.

i watch her.

and she’s crying and i’m crying and i can’t see and then she’s

screaming. she says that i ALWAYS loved you

more than i ever

loved her.

and i wake up

and i can’t breathe and i’m clawing at my bed and i

can still feel your knife in my skin and i

can still hear her voice and i

can still feel you next to me and i

can’t breathe.

and i’ve been running and running

and running

this whole time.

pulling back and taking that

sprint for a

finish line i can’t see.

i record my beads (22)

and all the nightmares

and all the pains

like a doctor on the outside. like someone

looking in, but

all from the

outside.

disconnected.

it’s summer

and my friends and family say

“why don’t you come out and play?”

and all i say back, as i duck my head

and set my pencil to the paper, is:

“i’ve got a lot of homework to do, mom, dad, friends, people.”

and i haven’t written much.

i haven’t drawn much.

i haven’t gone to therapy this summer.

i’ve gone to sleep well past midnight since, you know,

probably since the middle of april.

i’ve got to brush my teeth (the dentist says to take care)

(of myself.) i’ve got to exercise (my body says to take care)

(of myself.) i need to eat (my body says to take care)

(of myself.) i need to stop eating (my body)

and my dad said he’d prefer it if i dropped my summer courses.

and my mom said i only have so long to be a kid.

and my family said that i should have a summer.

and my friends said they want to talk and to hang out and to see me.

and i’ve got a lot of homework to do,

but my body (and my parents and my family and my friends and my dentist)

said to take care

of myself.

so i might just do it.