like, do you even go here?
i buy you bottled in capsules but that’s not really you it’s more the
of bad feelings the absence
of not you
i get a lot of the absence the
of bad feelings i wrench them
with two fingers from my esophagus
into the reservoir of another failed
do you even go here? i mean, like, a positive summation because all i’ve got is lists of you’re not this and you’re not that Continue reading
cold night, foggy glass, clouds on windows condensating from the lips of muted voices on the other side the other side the brittle panes that separate you and me and you and me and you and me the separation of the hero and the other the Other with a capital O let’s talk Said let’s talk the things we used to say and said before the foggy cold clouds windows night glass condensation muted voices on the other side the other side the other
[interruption] but anyway i was going to Continue reading
The sandwich, like a blister, leaked its filling. Peanut butter dribbled down the crusts of fat white bread, and sugar and oil caked in pools on the Ziploc bag underneath. Across the table, the psych technician’s eyes never wavered.
It was lunchtime. Continue reading
The Tin Can Alley bridge, recently constructed, had the texture and look of a mall-kiosk fashion scarf. The building material was three fitted sheets from the top shelf of the Jennifer’s mom’s linen closet, and the route was the space between Jennifer’s bedroom balcony and Hannah’s bathroom window. Hannah, for her part, would have preferred a different entrance ramp, but what could she do? Her own bedroom was on the other side of the house, downstairs, and anyway she shared it with her little sister Bitsy. The Tin Can Alley bridge wasn’t big enough for three. Continue reading
Grainy on the projector screen in the
activity room of the nursing home,
her photographic memory is fading into
sepia tones. They tell the story of
tea bags steeped in water poured on crumpled paper stained into
and yet Continue reading
God make me whole again.
Holograms, hollow days
are foolish, lack fullness,
unholy on holidays.
Harness my hard thoughts and
hold them in Folgers tins.
Grind them into dust, give me
grounds to be free again. Continue reading
It’s been nearly eight months since I left Oklahoma, and I still get homesick for my treatment center.
As a general rule, an inpatient eating disorders program should not be an object of nostalgia. Fond memories are meant for your childhood home, your summer camp, your junior prom. Residential treatment for anorexia, on the other hand—well, if you had fun, you were probably doing it wrong.
Objectively, I know all of this. Continue reading
Thank god for your rapidly staling blueberry crumb muffins. Thank god for your carafes of day-old hazelnut coffee. Thank god for your employees who wandered like zombies, refilling napkins with the dead eyes of miscast extras in high-budget Oscar-bait period pieces. Thank god for 24/7.