When I first saw you, you were
a half-erased sketch
in a wheelchair that could have
fit your thighs four times over.
The smudges of charcoal wavered in a
along the outline of your veins.
“Let’s go swimming,” Rob says.
“Fuck, no.” I’m not into it.
“It’s, like, fifteen hundred degrees out here.”
“That seems a little high.”
“Celcius or Fahrenheit?”
I roll over onto my side and wrap my arms around my gut. Sweat rubs against sweat. I’m concerned my toes might be burning. Continue reading
Disappointment. Head to the wall horizontally in a series of repetitive motions. Pee in a cup wrapped in hospital gowns deposited at the nurses’ station with glazed-over 5am eyes. Disappointment. Five minutes alone at the computer feeling nothing but the impending sense of always being alone. Head to the wall. Nail into skin. Chipping away at the tender flesh of your left thumb until the blood stains your homework and your fingers. Continue reading
I want to know you.
You who linger in the photo albums of my childhood like spilled ink from a ballpoint pen.
I want to know you.
You who were a prisoner of war and became a prisoner again in the living room on the hospital bed with the oxygen tank droning as a good nurse named Glynda gathered your soiled sheets from beneath your wasting frame.
It was stately once, strong just
like the portrait of your father that still hangs in the office beside your college diploma.
Class of 1940-something. I wish I remembered, but I don’t. Continue reading
I’m sorry I’m triggering.
I’m sorry sometimes I’m the loaded gun to your head.
I’m sorry about my stomach and the way it’s been bunching like the flea-ridden folds of the sharpeis in your wall calendar.
I’m sorry I’m fat.
I’m sorry I’m not fat but still see myself as a sagging sack of potatoes in the full-length mirror. Continue reading
My exterior is frosted over
by accident but
nevertheless you’ll have to
scrape off the frozen layers of
skin from my body like you
scrape off the ice from the windshield
in late December when your nose runs and
you leave a written record of your breath
upon the atmosphere. Continue reading
Five in the morning. The door to the roof swings.
I am beckoned by the receding darkness and the
slick tenuous ground beneath bare feet. I grasp the
knob, hands sweaty from too many blankets and too
little breeze. I stumble softly, eyesight blurry, onto the
eerie expanse of broken lawn chairs, railingless
ledges, and the gentle sag of water damage from the
rain that gathers in puddles in the indentations of our
college-housing infrastructure. I am partially unconscious Continue reading
Not to be blunt but
let’s be blunt you are
bluntly self-destructive and you
treat your friends like
They absorb your bleeding heart without
comment or criticism. You are
dangerously depressed and
I don’t say it with insensitivity. Continue reading