we used to blast indie pop in your hand-me-down car

at 5 am, mcdonald’s hot cakes in my lap

as i fed you

not enough maple syrup, you would say,

i’m too spoiled by the sweetness of your lips

i drive an extra 25 minutes to avoid the mcdonald’s on tulip street.

it’s silent in the car

my poetry hits like acid reflux

and mouthfuls of chlorine water;

unkept and

green

green

green

green

they often tell me,

“it is, like, so beautiful.”

am i ungrateful for taking offense?

keep your beauty

the fuck away from me

let’s sharpen our teeth instead

running half drunk through the city,

pouring booze on open wounds

and skating right off

the parking garage.

i’d say i love you too

or maybe i'd say sorry

but anyone who knows me

would tell you

(i catch my own falls)

depression is a jinxed sentence first cousin.

sixteen elephant's living 3 weeks

to a year

in the room of the trauma unit

at that hospital overlooking the city.

i made friends with that boy

sporting a pink scar on his adams apple and

a girl with bleach breath.

three nurses at all times,

one psychiatrist

one physician

one therapist

six attempts at medication and

one tall man in the corner

with a syringe

in case your hands get too close

to your throat.

dull crayons to pass the time,

but most of the pages stayed blank

and the red crayons kept disappearing onto wrists and

walls and milk is thrown

against the plexiglass fishbowl

that the nurses stand behind,

eating salads and diet coke for lunch

while on my side of the bowl,

drowned kids float to the surface

a girl who likes reggae

and clouds that look like shapes

refuses dinner

for the seventh night in a row and

dead eyes stare at hospital feet,

because they took our shoes,

gave us socks that are safe

for kids like us

where a boy who never stops

drawing calenders

hides a plastic fork

he stole from the cafeteria in;

broken and shivved,

protection against the shadows

dancing along the concrete walls.

but no one tells the nurses,

and i think it was because

we all quietly prayed that we might become his next shadow,

i quietly prayed to become a shadow.

They were ours.

They consisted of old Indian food containers, piles of papers and drafts falling over, precariously balanced books and plants spilling over their pots. Coats flung on floors and crumpled, wrinkled bedsheets. Old coffee in almost every cup, sheet music just about everywhere and weird, miscellaneous objects we’d use for bookmarks.

The yelling at the beginning of the day trying to find our earbuds and keys which would be under seven layers of something. The loud traffic right outside the window and the club music that would sometimes rattle our windows. The music from the 80s we’d blare daily or the radio podcast that always got played as we cooked dinner (which was rare).

They were spastic and annoying and you’d trip over something every few seconds, but I kinda miss our mess.

After you moved out, the kitchen is too bare, no music really sounds right and the stacks of books aren’t as quite as high. I miss the mess of your laugh at midnight as we danced, the mess of how you tried to make coffee in the oven once, the mess of your shoes you protested to putting away, and the mess of us.

All of it, it was so messy.

But so were we.

I am not a good person.

If white lies were good deeds, I’d be called a saint. I substitute nihilism for wit and self-deprecation for charm. I’m too scared to believe in God.

You could do better.

I’m so pretentious. I equate big words with big feelings, and I overuse the semicolon. I don’t know how to tie my shoes properly. I’m afraid of grasshoppers. I get anxious when things stay the same for too long, and change frightens me. I’m haunted by the people I’ve ghosted. I’m daunted by my own heartbeat. Everything I do looks like a cry for help.

Why are you even here?

You are so beautiful. I’ll never deserve you.

I’m the shade to your sunshine.

You rest comfortably beneath me,

but I’m stunting your growth.

I’m holding you back.

I’m obscuring your view of the sky.

Please be patient with me.

I’m a wagon with square wheels.

You bring so much light to the world around you, the sun might be your mirror.

I’m a squalid, pathetic little hermit,

holed up within the confines of his own head.

You’re everything Julie Andrews sings about.

Someday⁠,

if your open eyes don’t halt my heart⁠,

I promise I’ll tell you everything.

I say you are my blood, in arteries

and veins sustaining, flowing, go, return,

give breath and life and warmth among the chill

and regulate in heat, all-vital and

immeasurable, for giving of this blood

this preciousness I have, it yet renews

.

in the darkest of your nights

when blackness swallowed you whole

in whispers, you screamed . so no one would know

( numb touch, fragile cells . be aware child, there is broken glass on the floor )

I would save you each time

never looking back

placed in this moment with you

by your side

waves and storms under mangled fibers

( it’s alright, they’re beautiful )

and if you ( listen ) don’t mind my shattered pieces

then darling, I will always take care of yours

always, even from afar

distance does not bind me . but brings me closer

outstretching my hand and feeling the threads

feeling you near

you used to ask me why...

and I hope now you see

feel

breathe

touch your heartbeats with care

I came because you needed me

( hear it )

and now I need you just the same

my lungs burn when in your presence

red hot coals lying on the surface of snow

open chest notions, remember?

I don’t feel the pain

just stars with sharp edges that mean me no harm

( my gaze follows you ) you walk on those shattered pieces

I inhale them

( don’t be scared, it’s a beautiful notion . just like you )

who knew broken pieces were meant to mend, not cause destruction on those who dared to come closer

I knocked on your door... slowly, splinters coloring my tones

you breathed in the silence, walls of concrete covered your bones

you should have not bothered . these battles are mine... why are you here, when no one asked you to stay?

( your voices moved without a sound )

but the words that came to me ( so loud ) were different

( I heard ) so tired... but maybe you could stay?

maybe I need this... fog fills my eyes

tenderness from within stroke me

under your layers, you feel like home

deeply rooted connections under crying skies

the havens open wider with a time that I can’t grasp

( breath it out, make it soft )

and I’m writing my letter to you

with a scribbled down soul . that feels more than she can name

ink on my hands , imprinted on my skin

( whisper it in yourself )

mgławica miliona gwiazd

I am the space dust that glides within your cells

gently strumming your core, sinking in your bones

hard matter, attentive energy

I’m here

still tasting your soul

( learning my home )

growing for you and me

slowly, without rush

with fireworks just on the edge of the spectrum

.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXEszmJjzQU

There’s a message hidden far away

In a vintage case I could never claim

It spells out everything I want to say

And on it in gold someone has inscribed your name

Find it and set my words free

Bind it and it will blind me

I crawl through the core

Removing any doubt

Taking a stand back then

~But slipping~

I fall once more

And you reach out

And catch my hand again

Who are you

And why do you believe in me?

There’s a message hidden far away

In a vintage case I could never claim

It spells out everything I want to say

Forever describing the pretense of our game

Dust is the past we have grown

Trust is to never be alone

You always find

Me when I’m

Lost somewhere in my mind

~And slipping~

Don’t cry dear

I’m right here

Fighting away all your fears

Who are you

And why do you believe in me?

i have a friend from high school

who keeps visiting war torn countries

to save dogs

and do yoga

and i see the photos of sun salutations

and lattes

and posts about how gross the air is

and how the people are rude

and dirty

and sometimes i think

i should reach out

but i don’t know where to start

and then i think

well,

i’m probably an alcoholic, so,

who am i to criticize

active members of a community

not to mention

half of our graduating class

has either OD’d

or been to rehab

so maybe poverty tourism

and white savior complexes

are excusable by comparison

i never reach a conclusion

i never reach out

i open a bottle of prosecco

95 pesos at Costco

and look out over the Mexican sunset

passing another day

under the umbrella

of trying to

“figure it all out”