you’re awake.
did you drink too much caffeine?
when was the last time you had caffeine?
you were just asleep—
just on the other side of the water’s surface.
why can’t you go back? why can’t you find it?
you were just comfortable. now
your knee aches,
it’s too hot,
your back screams.
the shadows taunt you.
your alarm clock taunts you.
Tag: anxiety
They Never Call Back
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from July, 2024.
I. aglu, n.
Why is it so hard to breathe?
Oxygen is
all around me.
Everyone else moves around
unburdened,
full-lunged.
Why is it so hard to move?
My fingers, toes
feel, twitch.
But I am stuck here, a bench
overlooking
a glacial valley.
II. nidorosity, n.
When I move, my joints
sound like gravel underfoot.
As I walk, no one
walks beside me.
Repugnant is what I am—
worthless.
III. mouffle, n.
Stare at myself in the mirror
when shadows don’t let me sleep.
Lights are brighter at 3am;
they show more detail.
It’s my nose, probably,
that deters people.
Explanations don’t bring any comfort,
nor do they help me sleep.
IV. âme damnée, n.
I hate being alone, but
I fear finding someone too.
What if someone deems me
worthy of time, attention,
and I lose myself completely?
It’s clear to me:
I would do anything they’d ask
to stay in their orbit.
V. glamorgan sausage, n.
I feel like an
imposter among humans—
better stay inside.
VI. funiliform, adj.
I pull the rope,
close the curtain
on my performance
in the role
of Normal Person.
VII. niddick, n.
My brain is
against me.
I feel it
when an earthquake
spans my neck
when I see
a loose cable.
VIII. wobbulator, n.
Clouds part;
it becomes clear
for an instant:
I need help.
IX. muck sweat, n.
My insurance company’s website
has an unintelligible interface.
Play Spot the Difference while
scrolling through dozens of names.
Dry my palms on my shirt,
dial a number into my phone.
Run my fingers through my hair
as rings echo through my skull.
X. clicktivism, n.
Mumble through a voicemail,
repeat my number at the end.
Breathe. Breathe. Find air.
Open YouTube, start my playlist
of dogs reuniting with their owners.
A golden retriever leaps into the arms of a soldier
standing in the threshold of his home.
Breathe. Breathe. Find air.
A woman explains how she sets up her room
for her online therapy sessions.
XI. dad joke, n.
Some 3am googling
says socializing
can stabilize mental health.
As I collect carts
in the Costco parking lot,
I smile, wave at customers.
When I return them
to the entrance, I say hi to
my coworkers, ask about their day.
Haltingly, I attempt a joke
to build camaraderie.
They suddenly need to get back to work.
XII. cryptomnesia, n.
Google isn’t a doctor.
An algorithm isn’t a person.
I should talk to an actual human
with a degree.
I should see if there’s anyone
in my insurance’s network.
XIII. eeksie-peeksie, adj.
After several hours
figuring out someone to call,
it turns out
I had called them already and
they never called back.
I open Instagram, watch a capybara
balance an orange on their head.
XIV. mythoclastic, adj.
Another online therapy ad
interrupts the flow of my scrolling.
Maybe they call people back.
Maybe they acknowledge
the dregs at the bottom of the mug.
My shaky thumbs
google the name,
but the autocomplete
adds the word
‘controversy.’
XV. ceol, n.
Leave my phone
by my water glass
sitting in its own sweat.
Need to make dinner.
Humans need food
to fuel their organs.
Ask the robot
who’s always listening to me
to play Cavetown.
XVI. fascinate, v.
See the coiled belt
on top of my dresser.
There is no escape.
They will never call you back.
See the coiled cart strap
by door to the break room.
Time is a flat circle.
You will feel this way forever.
XVII. latter wit, n.
When I’m out of the fog,
I don’t understand
what felt so logical
before.
XVIII. scringe, v.
Stare at myself in the mirror
when the sun leans on the windows.
Every mistake, every fumble
stares back at me.
Anger wells in their eyes, comes out
as spit launched at my face.
Clench my fist, swing,
make them go away.
XIX. ryepeck, n.
Shards fall like hail
over the bathroom counter.
Several stand in pools of blood
on the back of my hand.
XX. cook, n.
There’s something satisfying
about the way the glass bites
the muscles in my hand
as I clean up the bathroom.
XXI. plum bird, n.
I can hear birds in the tree
outside my dining room window
as I bandage my hand.
Their whistle sounds celebratory.
XXII. mwah-mwah, v.
The sun presides over the parking lot
in a cloudless sky.
I gather carts in the corral by the gas station.
A woman holds a child’s hand as
she pushes her cart toward me.
She looks just like my mom.
She even does that annoying air-kiss thing as
she says goodbye to another mother putting her kid in a Subaru.
XXIII. teleguide, v.
Maybe I should call my mom?
She could have an idea
of how to help.
My phone feels heavy
as I scroll through my contacts.
I remember
the track she kept me to,
the lack of choices I had,
the clack of her nails on the counter.
XXIV. buko juice, n.
Put the phone down.
Take a drink.
Think over pros and cons.
XXV. ravalement, n.
I am a broken mirror
trying to reassemble itself
piece by piece.
But, there's no foundation,
no reference poster
for what I'm supposed to be.
What if I get my dimensions wrong?
What if I spread myself too thin?
XXVI. raggare, n.
My dad was never around.
He was always off at car shows,
parading his Roadster around.
He would be no help.
He probably barely remembers
my name.
XXVII. dinki mini, n.
All around me, people go in pairs:
an old couple pushes a cart to their van,
teenagers hold hands in the food court,
parents juggle toddlers and canvas bags.
XXVIII. gong show, n.
Stare at my left eye in one of
the few remaining mirror fragments.
Stare at the stained porcelain,
small red islands in a vast white sea.
My phone against my ear,
my moms's voicemail beeps.
XXIX. patronomatology, n.
We're family.
Sure, she changed her name
after the divorce,
but names are just words.
I'm still her kid. She raised me.
She has to call back.
XXX. sometimey, adj.
It's been two days.
She has posted on Facebook four times.
She wrote about seeing Twisters
with her boyfriend.
She hasn't called me back.
XXXI. poddy dodger, n.
You're on your own.
You've always known.
People say they care.
They tell you to reach out.
They will never call you back.
You don't deserve their help.
You deserve to be alone.
You deserve to hurt.
In the Foyer
There we were
in the foyer
fussing with backpacks, tying shoes,
unsure
what the world had planned
for those we love.
i keep seeing you die before i wake up
you lie in a hospital bed
eyes behind a curtain i can’t touch
you look at me
ask who i am
and a light goes out
we’re at home
around midnight
a single lamp on in the bedroom
on your nightstand
comforter around your neck
eyes closed
you breathe deep
your exhale never ends
your chest caves in
like canyon walls
we’re driving to a concert downtown
you’re at the wheel
merging left to get off on seneca
a mustang goes 20 over
doesn’t see us
clips our left bumper
and your side swings into
the bottom of a semi
we’re eating potato salad
at a picnic table in a city park
by the house your parents moved out of 15 years ago
we’re arguing
but i don’t really know what about
you throw your spoon at my face
storm off
disappear in the parking lot
a different timeline
where we never met
but i see you giving a speech
on the evening news
your name flashes on the chyron
something draws my eyes to it
and i look up
in time
to see a bullet enter your chest
we’re on a hike
along the coast
wading through wet sand, uneven boulders
you say you need a break
sweat coats your forehead
you become pale
chug from your nalgene
the one covered in ferret stickers
you suddenly turn over and vomit
keep vomiting
until you fall over completely
i turn you over, find the sos button
hanging from your shoulder strap
i check your airway and your pulse
you’re at work
busy
i text you to let you know i made it home
but you don’t respond
you’re busy
the weather report on tv is interrupted
by the news
of a bombing downtown
where you work
you smile at me
blood seeps through the gaps
between your teeth
blood drips down your chin
you say it’s okay
morning routine
you lock the door at least you’re pretty sure you check and the door is indeed locked you pat your pockets to count your keys your phone your wallet but did you lock the door you go back and check and it’s locked you walk to the car and tap your pockets again you can’t remember locking the door you think about object permance as you reassure yourself the door is locked by turning the knob and pushing it three times you make it to the car and use your key to start it lay your phone and wallet in the empty space by the gearshift you tap all three as you pull out of your driveway then again as you turn out of the apartment complex to drive to work you’re pretty sure you locked the door
Someone With My Face
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from July, 2023.
I. hornman, n.
I don’t really know what I’m doing anymore. I feel like a spit valve at the end of a show. Every day is the same four songs on repeat.
II. mug, adj.
Track 1: the first things I see are angry numbers telling me to wake up, roll out of bed, make myself look human.
III. bummill baty, n.
Track 2: I sit in a Starbucks drive-thru, then I sit in backroad traffic behind school buses, before I sit in a cubicle and enter data into a spreadsheet.
IV. mirligoes, n.
Track 3: 7359672056 tab 4214 tab 60.89 enter. Thin, black numbers in small, white boxes. Veins between the pixels come into view.
V. mingei, n.
Track 4: Rectangles, rounded edges. Talking heads in news rooms, vlogs in cluttered bedrooms. They all keep talking into their own headphones.
VI. mizzler, n.
When does the narrative begin? Where is the inciting incident? Why must every day bleed into the next?
VII. machinga, n.
When I was younger, people said there were many paths. They pitched careers like rolexes on streets around tourist traps. But “following my dreams” stranded me in data entry.
VIII. raccoon, v.
Is it possible to start over? Take a different turn down a side street on an evening walk, not go back?
IX. anticipant, adj. and n.
Pack a duffel bag just in case. The mountain looms over the end of the highway. The exit sign shines in the evening light.
X. rampike, adj.
A vision: the highway twists, decays like felled leaves in the late-autumnal sun. I take the exit back home.
XI. asante sana, int. and n.
You should be thankful, Kenneth. Many would kill for what you have. How dare you take that for granted, try to leave it all behind?
XII. whenua, n.
These trees, these hills are home to me. I know their stories; they know mine. Why would I leave the only family I know?
XIII. shockeroo, n.
Stuck in limbo: desire for change, comfort of not. I am a boulder, but am I at the bottom of a hill or the edge of a cliff? I awake each morning exasperated.
XIV. fetissan, adj.
Dig out my trumpet from the back of the closet. Lie on the bedroom floor, on my back, eyes closed. Let each note bounce off the ceiling to give me an answer.
XV. minnowed, adj.
Eyes open. Small black dots scatter across the ceiling like fish in a crowded pond. The ghosts of fallen tears connect my eyes to my ears.
XVI. deepfake, n.
At work, the next day, I leave my body, watch someone with my face type on a keyboard endlessly. Their face wrinkles, their hair greys, They keep typing.
XVII. ecofact, n.
Above their desk on the grey cubicle wall, a flyer from a concert ages ago at Jazz Alley, my name in large letters.
XVIII. articucho, n.
A pain in my chest like an ice pick through my ribs. There’s no air in this office. Everything is so loud. Even the lights are failing.
XIX. forslow, v.
Friday. I’ll leave Friday. I’ll pack the car, leave the office and never come back. Definitely.
XX. hippodrome, v.
Friday evening. Sparse highway. The exit sign wears a mask of wet leaves. But my gas tank is low; I can’t chance that.
XXI. raniform, adj.
Why is it I jump whenever I get close to doing something I want to do? Why am I so scared?
XXII. snorker, n.
When I was younger, I had a dream. When I was younger, I played carefree. When I was younger, I ran after what I wanted.
XXIII. nuchthemerinal, adj.
I sit down at the dining table and it's Sunday. The weekend blurred like trees on the highway. I haven’t moved. I can’t move.
XXIV. apple bee, n.
An ad on Instagram. An open mic at the indie bookshop downtown. A stinger in my chest.
XXV. duskus, n.
The sky becomes dark as the inside of the bookshop as the owner steps up to the mic.
XXVI. raconteur, n.
Someone with my face walks onto the stage when my name is called. They explain their history with the song “Over the Rainbow” while fiddling with their trumpet’s valves.
XXVII. racketiness, n.
Each note out of their horn, a memory of a past life: clubs, festivals, concert halls all across the country.
XXVIII. aptronym, n.
They don't keep to a set tempo. Notes ebb and flow over heads and bookshelves like grey waves over sea stars in tide pools.
XXIX. queemly, adv.
They smirk, signal the audience with a flip of their left hand. Their voices join in the chorus.
XXX. merry-go-round, n.
When the last note ends, sweat drips down my face. Applause, cheers, smiling faces, tears. It feels like home.
XXXI. delph, n.
Trumpet case on the kitchen counter. Bright office lights. A din of keystrokes. Listen to Donald Byrd on my drive home.
A Logical Conclusion of Hypochondria
Floaters crawl across an overcast sky. Maybe your retinas are about to detach. One day, you won’t be able to see anyway. A cramp in your calf wakes you in the middle of the night. Feels like a mountain lion’s teeth ripping meat from bone. One day, you won’t be able to walk anyway. Hollowness erupts in your wrist halfway through typing an email. You bend and stretch to fill the void. One day, you won’t be able to type anyway. A feeling in your chest like an icepick in your heart. Each breath hurts. Is it your heart? Your lungs? One day, you won’t be able to breathe anyway. You can’t remember the word that describes this feeling. It’s behind a fog rolling over a harbor. One day, you won’t be able to remember anyway.
Have I always been this way?
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from January, 2023.
I. wardour street, adj. and n.
Back in ninth grade, after our English class read Romeo & Juliet, Dom kept speaking in fake medieval diction. She’d spend lunch telling me about the latest episode of Riverdale with the occasional ‘ye’ and ’t’was,’ a smattering of ‘-eth’ suffixes.
II. Ideogenous, adj.
Dom used to write stories all the time. During class, her laptop would be open for ‘note-taking,’ but she would be deep into her latest Reylo fanfiction.
III. collabo, v.
The first time Dom spoke to me, she asked me to help with a piece she wanted to play for the solo and ensemble contest. She was taking a mute out of her trumpet; I was putting the marimba part of “So What” in my folder. The hollow sound of her emptying her spit valve filled the time it took me to understand. I never thought I was that good or noticeable. I accepted the opportunity.
IV. amigurumi, n.
I have a squid on my desk, small, purple, a tiny grin, that Dom knit me before she moved away. I think about messaging her every time I see it, but get too afraid to type anything.
V. groceteria, n.
The morning of the solo and ensemble contest, Dom said we needed to stop at the Haggen by my apartment complex to get AriZona Arnold Palmers for good luck. She walked across the store like her life depended on it. The cashier complimented our suits. We chugged them in the high school parking lot.
VI. misogamous, adj.
Dom texted me during winter break our sophomore year upset her mom got engaged to her boyfriend. She didn’t understand how her mom could happily participate in such patriarchal traditions.
VII. y’alls, pron.
When the judge announced our performance of “Take Five” won the small ensemble category, the audience erupted.
VIII. roscidating, adj.
I sit at my computer, doomscrolling, alone. Dom’s squid stares at me. I need to talk to someone, but what would I even say?
IX. red queen, n.
She always wanted to get better at whatever she was fixated on. She encouraged me to do the same. She even showed me her earlier fanfiction, which was so terrible she swore to never share it. But she trusted me.
X. cabinet able, adj.
I used to eat lunch in the library. Well, I’d sit in the library during lunch. But Dom invited me to sit with her and her friends after we started practicing for the contest. It was like starting a series halfway through the third season, piecing together names and plots everyone else already knows.
XI. ajangle, adj. and adv.
I remember the sound distinctly: the chime my phone made when Dom texted me to tell me her stepdad got relocated; they’d have to move during spring break. I remember the sound distinctly: the chime my phone made when I learned my best friend was leaving in the middle of our senior year. My phone has been on silent since.
XII. coachy, adj.
Junior year, when my grandpa got sick, Dom drove me from school to the hospital. She refused my offer for gas money, said it’s what friends do.
XIII. blankety, adj.
I don’t have another way to describe it. When I was around her, I felt safe. She understood me in a way most people don’t.
XIV. galdem, n.
For me, it was hard feeling part of the group. I always felt outside, apart. When Dom invited me to her lunch table, she made sure I was part of the conversation. It’s because of her I was able to make the friends I had, the memories I have. She made it so easy.
XV. satoshi, n.
Is this what distance does? Does the past live behind rose-tinted glass? Does she remember me this way: emphases on my positives, whatever they are? Or, does she remember how much she did for me, how little I could return? Does her mind filter me through the windows of an abandoned home?
XVI. cyberslacking, n.
I don’t even know what I’m afraid of. Sometimes, when a professor’s lecture is slow, I search Dom’s name on Instagram to see what she’s been up to. I don’t follow her, too afraid of her seeing the notification with my name, remembering how I disappeared, then blocking me.
XVII. mindstyle, n.
Have I always been this way? Has it always been the case that the walls around me were constructed by me? Am I to blame for my own isolation? How couldn’t I see it before? Why can’t I change it?
XVIII. barnstorm, v.
In the spring of freshman year, our jazz band did several performances at nearby memory care places. Dom was so excited to be a traveling bard, she memorized several sonnets and monologues by Shakespeare to recite between songs.
XIX. bumble broth, n.
The week after she moved, she texted me, asking how I’d been, apologizing for not reaching out earlier overwhelmed with travel and unpacking. Words flooded me. Where would I even start? I couldn’t even find the words for what I was feeling.
XX. cruyff turn, n.
For a while, I tried diversion: ask about her day, ask about her mom, ask about Euphoria. Much easier to read and listen to her than find words of my own.
XXI. booze can, n.
I remember the first time I felt the fractures grow. It was a month after she moved. My dads were at a school counselor conference. I raided the liquor cabinet in hopes it would loosen my lips, find my words. The words that came were hurt, full of confrontation, resentment.
XXII. dumbsizing, n.
She didn’t text me for several days. I didn’t blame her. It was never the same afterward. Time between messages grew like moss after a rainstorm.
XXIII. kitbash, v.
The way she’d play trumpet, write her stories— she’d draw connections between unlike things, create something I’d never seen before.
XXIV. durex, n.
We were inseparable once. Each afternoon at one of our homes, homework and horror movies, walks through the parks at our neighborhoods’ edges. We’d share AirPods and secrets before school, at lunch, at games our boyfriends made us attend.
XXV. ramfeezled, adj.
I’m standing at the end of the bread aisle staring at the everything bagels, her favorite breakfast. I miss her so much. What’s the worst that can happen? I already have nothing. I already am nothing.
XXVI. skyrgalliard, n.
There’s a beehive in my chest. Words fill the windshield on my way home. I activate the wipers to sift through them.
XXVII. shockle, n.
We did a morning hike at Franklin Falls the last day of winter break senior year. We packed two thermoses of hot chocolate, drank them at the base of the frozen waterfall. We talked about our families, the future, decisions we would have to make.
XXVIII. chup, int. and adj.
My natural state is silent. It’s easy to listen to other people talk. It’s much more difficult to say something, to be open and vulnerable to someone else.
XXIX. mopery, n.
On her last day, I couldn’t drive home from school. I sat in the parking lot on the hood of my car. She said she had to go, had to finish packing. I watched her drive away, then sat and cried until security came to shoo me away.
XXX. send-forth, n.
I helped organize a party to tell Dom goodbye. We marathoned Star Wars movies, ate bagels, drank Arnold Palmers. It was the last time we were in the same room, the last time we laughed together.
XXXI. navel-gazer, n.
Stare at the ceiling for an hour, dig my phone out of my bag, take a deep breath, open Instagram, find her profile, hit follow, open a message, type the first words that come to me, hit send, enable sound, throw my phone across the living room. It dings.
Starting Over
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from October, 2022.
I. light head, n. and adj.
Today is a new day. I’m going to turn it all around. Roll out of bed, complete a yoga routine with my phone propped against the lamp on my nightstand. A quick shower, a quick breakfast that I eat on my way to the bus stop. Nothing is going to stop me.
II. per fas et nefas, adv.
Headphones in as I approach the stop. No one is going to ruin my day. No one is going to bring me down. Lizzo will keep me afloat.
III. downpressor, n.
Bus pulls up, everyone files on, backpacks knock against each other, people, doorframes, seats. Bus driver’s voice mumbles through his expectations. It’s early enough that people quiet down for him, but I leave my headphones in, wait for his voice to stop, the bus din to return, the yellow dashes in the road to scroll by underfoot.
IV. alieniloquy, n.
The thing about the lines on the road is that they’re hypnotizing as they fly by. An intermittent, off-yellow flash carries your mind to some elsewhere without dimensions in time or space. And when they end at the parking lot’s edge, you suddenly remember you have to go to first period.
V. bobsled, v.
Hallways are full of bodies— a current pulls me right to Ms. Acevedo’s classroom. I don’t remember moving my feet.
VI. rhubarb, n. and adj.
Throat’s tight. Swallow the past, Tori; this is a new chapter. I put a smile on my face convincing enough to fool everyone at my cooking station.
VII. lightning bird, n.
I’m holding steady until he enters the room. His hair curling under the edge of his hat. A jolt in my chest— why do I want to cry and smile at the same time?
VIII. dump cake, n.
I look down at our counter, can’t look up, need to forget he’s here. Ms. Acevedo gives instructions; I don’t hear them. Shay does, assumes the role of our group’s leader. She tells me to measure and pour baking powder, salt, flour in a bowl and stir. I see his face in the powdery mountain range.
IX. dunnish, adj.
Eli asks if I’m done mixing. I nod and xe dumps my bowl into xyrs, mixes. I look up, the room’s colors seem to be on a dimmer switch— it looks like the sky an hour before thunder.
X. folx, n.
Ms. Acevedo address the class about over safety protocols. Shay and Eli discuss how to decorate our cake. I sneak a headphone through my sleeve to my palm, rest it against my ear. Hayley Williams yells about misery.
XI. ice blink, n.
The bell releases us to the sea, a long voyage to our next classes. Stare ahead at nothing; looks better than watching bow waves collide. Mr. Persson’s display for the Revolutionary War overwhelms his end of the hallway.
XII. birdscape, n.
Respite among war stories, since he’s in math class. I can stretch my wings, restart the new me.
XIII. bodgie, v.
New Tori writes her notes in cursive. New Tori nods her head while someone talks. New Tori asks questions during lectures. New Tori has her shit together.
XIV. chugalug, v.
I drink from my water bottle throughout third period, which helps me focus on geometric proofs— tonight’s homework. I get in the zone, my homework finished, ten minutes to spare, an empty water bottle. I ask Mx. Archer to go to the bathroom. They tell me to go fast.
XV. mediocritize, v.
You are never going to change. There is no “New Tori.” You are the same piece of shit you were yesterday. You are alone for a reason. It was obvious he’d leave. You are deluding yourself into thinking anyone would like you. I scramble for my headphones, play the loudest Sleater-Kinney song I find.
XVI. spreathed, adj.
I feel cracks spread across my arms as I enter the bathroom. They become deep, wide; demons rise from the dark crevasses. I feel the boiling spittle drip from their open maws, their claws pierce my skin as they push off to take flight. It burns and I scratch, hoping my nails bury them alive, but they keep sprouting like weeds in an unkempt garden.
XVII. ignorantism, n.
Shay enters the bathroom as I leave, gives a small wave, looks at my arms— radiant pink, thin scratch marks all over my forearms. She tilts her head, her brows concerned, starts to ask a question she doesn’t have words for. I tell her I’m okay.
XVIII. monkey bear, n.
I don’t know why I can’t calm. Why is it so hard to stand still, to quiet the thoughts that clash in my head like marbles against a mirror? I watch the branches on the tree outside Mx. Archer’s window sway in the wind as the bell rings. Everyone gets up and leaves robotically, but I just sit there, unable to look away.
XIX. dark thirty, n.
I see it clearly still— the madrone branches dripping into the sound as we sat in the bed of his truck, watched the sky above Vashon turn pink. My hand in his, a blanket between us and a cloudless sky. He poured coffee from a thermos, told me he loved me. He said he’d never hurt me.
XX. amoretto, n.
I was warm then; I thought it boundless. I wrote his name in different styles in the margins of my notebooks. I lost focus in every class. Doodles— abstract shapes, hearts— left on every scrap of paper in my backpack. I wrote poems, left them in his locker.
XXI. nightertime, n.
Mx. Archer asks if I want to eat lunch in their room, if that’s why I haven’t left. I shrug, nod, but really, I’m not there; I’m still lying in bed at three in the morning, looking at my phone, reading the last message he sent me to make sure I understood each word.
XXII. chuddies, n.
The chill of the metal chair on my thighs brings me back. I regret that New Tori decided her style is yoga shorts and large sweatshirts regardless of the weather outside or in. Bell rings and I’ve eaten nothing again. Frustration builds up behind my eyes; I’m supposed to be better than this now. Mx. Archer throws a granola bar at my desk, tells me to eat it on my way to class.
XXIII. gist, v.
Suffice it to say I inhaled the granola bar on the way to English. I listen to Big Freedia, need to explode to start anew.
XXIV. menehune, n.
How could I have ever thought I could start over overnight, as if it would ever be that simple? I need to confront him.
XXV. yo, int. and n.
Chemistry. That’s when I’ll see him next. That’s when I’ll tell him what’s on my mind. I spend English drafting the words I need to say to make him understand.
XXVI. drooking, n.
I stand outside the chemistry room, waiting for him to show up. I take a sip from my water bottle when I see him round the corner holding Melanie’s hand. There’s a white flash and I feel my fingers tighten into a fist, a scratch grow inside my throat. My water bottle points at his waterlogged hat and shirt.
XXVII. grrr, v.
In my chest, a beehive hit with a baseball bat, their wings bristle against my skin. I fly away before he says a word, before an adult makes me talk about it.
XXVIII. mosker, v.
What was once vibrant, warm, soured, cold and bitter as coffee dregs. My throat on fire, I heave by the mailboxes in the neighborhood behind the school. It’s over. There was never any chance. You don’t get a fresh start. You will always be the second choice, alone, a fucked up girl no one will remember.
XXIX. sabo, n.
He knew I’d be there. He knew I’d see them. He must have wanted me to see them together, to see how he’s moved on already. They’re probably laughing now at what a fool I am to believe there was any possibility of reconciliation, to believe I am worth anything to anyone.
XXX. ablepsy, n.
My vision gets blurry, goes black. I sit on the curb, dig my headphones out of my pockets. My phone trembles in my hands; I can’t see the screen, can’t make the sounds to activate Siri. Silence envelops me. I drop my phone, don’t hear it hit the asphalt. My breathing becomes muted; my chest heaves, but there’s no sound— no air. I don’t know what to do.
XXXI. jack-o’-lantern, n.
A light, an arm's length away, appears, slowly retreats. I reach for the light, a face amongst the dark, which welcomes me, accepts me. Why is it leaving? I reach, lose balance; my palms, knees slam the road. Pebbles make homes in my skin. The light fades like the sun over the horizon. I evaporate as mist in the void.
The last time you were drowning
The last time you were drowning, they came to see to you after school. You were washing mugs in your classroom sink. They watched you, said you were methodical — a word you associate with supervillains. Scars in your vision danced on the whiteboard behind their head when you talked about your week.
M. Espinosa 