Tag: depression

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 Another Man’s Mirror

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from January, 2024.

I. quaaltagh, n.

An empty theatre,
lights still up,
blank screen.

People come in, think
they’re in the wrong room.
It’s nice

to watch them figure it out,
to hear their conversation,
to see if they notice me.

II. cineliterate, adj.

Twenty-four pictures
across the screen
fill your eyes
each second.

Horns and strings
from an orchestra
outside time and space
fills your ears.

You leave your body,
a metaphysical observer
of human behavior,
their ethos and pathos—

until the person behind you coughs.

III. alethiology, n.

I know
this shouldn’t bother me so much,
but I cannot help it.

Escaping this plane,
this strung-up meat bag,
is so nice.

I feel it all
come crashing down on me
instantly.

IV. puffinry, n.

Sit through all the credits,
drive home.

A house that feels
surrounded
by rough rock walls,
cold salt water.

No one ever comes here,
but me.

V. bobol, n.

From the couch, 
framed pictures on the wall
seem to tell the story

of a family
which feels more fictional
every day.

VI. hobson’s choice, n.

He used to say, “Six of one,
half a dozen of the other.”

I had never heard that sentence
before the night we had to choose

between moving into a shitty apartment
or living with my grieving mother.

That felt like the hardest decision
I’d ever have to make,

before our love evaporated
like unattended pasta water,

before I found his ring on my finger
reflected in another man’s mirror.

VII. poncif, n.

We all imagine
we’re the main character
of the movie.

How devastating
to find your story is
derivative drivel 

that gets panned by critics,
that bombs at the box office,
that teenagers call “mid.”

VIII. contrarian, n.

On the bookshelf,
by the Lego Space Needle,

there’s a selfie of us
posing at Pike Place Market.

His grin’s wide; his left arm
hugs my face into his shoulder.

I doubt
he was ever really that happy.

I doubt
he meant any of it.

IX. couscoussier, n.

I wanted
to be wanted.

I wanted
to feel something.

I didn’t think
about what it meant.

I didn’t think
about the future.

X. nidification, n.

When it’s time for bed, I

rearrange the three blankets
strewn over the couch,

empty my glass of water
into the pot of a plant he left,

load the dishwasher with
three days worth of plates,

cross off the day’s square
on the Van Gogh calendar he bought,

mentally prepare for another day.

XI. jingo-ring, n.

Everything is weightless
when I’m asleep.

Colors are bright,
my skin warm,

like the universe
is hugging me,

like the universe
understands me—

maybe, even,
forgives me.

XII. grá, n.

I keep making
too much coffee
in the morning.

I keep opening
my phone after
arriving at work.

I keep looking
at the last
message he sent.

XIII. natak, n.

He’s an actor.
We met in college
when he was the lead

in a queer retelling of 
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
I was a history major

with a friend
in the costume department
who invited me to an after party.

Our hands bumped, reaching
for a slice of Hawaiian pizza.
I was enamored.

XIV. peneroso, n.

The barista asks
how I’m doing.
Their brow pinched
as they place
my chai latte
on the counter.

Dominique says I
look like shit.
“More then usual,”
she adds as
my backpack lands
on my desk.

XV. blue monday, n.

You know how someone
can say something and
it nudges all your tectonic pates?

I tell her she’s right;
I shouldn’t be working today,
and leave with no further explanation.

XVI. prince, v.

It’s unfair, the way
hot people are treated,
how people fall over themselves
to get the smallest interaction.

You don’t mind much
when you’re his boyfriend
and get the runoff.

You do mind when he’s gone,
though, and people ignore you
like the human garbage
you know you are.

XVII. figury, adj.

Back home, I wrap myself
in my tortilla blanket.

I make the mistake
of opening his Instagram page.

XVIII. bitter end, n.

His last post is
from the night I told him.

A familiar streetlamp
under a cloudy moon

outside the bookshop
near the mall.

The caption:
the chorus from “Mister Cellophane.”

XIX. gumboot dance, n.

Guilt claws at my ribs
like bald eagle talons.

Each heart beat,
a seismic event.

My teeth chatter loud
as an open palm on rubber.

My thumb hovers
over the message button.

XX. ripicolous, adj.

I’m torn between two lives,
two branches of potential futures.

One in which I apologize
and maybe he hears me
and maybe we can be together again.

Another in which I atone
for my mistakes, give him space,
and maybe I grow on my own.

But, that’s really only two possibilities
of an infinite set with endless variables.

XXI. piranesian, adj.

Without you,
I feel like

all the color has been sapped
from the world, like

I am on the floor of a cavern and
sunlight is so far away, like

life is a staircase
I’ll never reach the top of.

XXII. nobody-crab, n.

My fingers typed
the letters of the words

without my mind’s consent.
My mind and I tell them

to delete the block of text,
but my thumb,

instead, dashes to
the paper airplane.

XXIII. frontenis, n.

I lose my grip; my phone clatters
against the coffee table

loud as my heart
in my throat,

loud as a rubber ball
slamming against a concrete wall.

XXIV. bermudian english, adj.

When I look at the ceiling,
I see shapes in the shadows.

It’s odd, you know,
how people change you.

You become a mixture
of past-you and them.

Who am I now that
I’m missing part of myself?

XXV. hawker centre, n.

My phone dings,
but I can’t look at it.

I leave it in the living room,
walk around the block.

There’s a circle of food trucks
in the parking lot

of the city park behind Walmart.
I get some chicken satay,

eat it on a bench by the geese
swimming through duckweed.

XXVI. noodgy, adj.

There’s no reason
to put it off anymore.

Clouds roll in, droplets dance
across the lake surface.

I need to go back.
I need to see what he said.

XXVII. mawworm, n.

I’m fine.
I’m normal.

It’s just a message.
It doesn’t have to mean anything.

I don’t have to tie my worth
to whatever it says.

I’ll just read it, process it, and
respond to it like a normal person would.

XXVIII. lardy-dardy, adj.

I walk by the neighborhood
with well-manicured lawns,

two cars in each driveway,
curtains pulled from their windows

to show their dining rooms,
happy families eating together.

XXIX. sectator, n.

My phone lay face down,
alone, on the coffee table.

The only notification
on my home screen is from

YouTube, saying tonight’s
A Closer Look just got uploaded.

Nothing moves in the house;
nothing makes a sound.

XXX. pushmobile, n.

The logical part of me
knows to leave it all alone,

watch a movie, escape
this timeline for a while.

"But. But,"
the other part says,

"what if it never sent?
What if you missed a critical typo?"

I find the message.
He left me on Seen.

XXXI. pettibockers, n.

I am small,
thin as silk.

Exposed, vulnerale,
a rabbit in a meadow.

I almost wish a hawk
would just fall from the sky

and end
this nightmare.

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.

i feel like a ghost town.

i feel like a ghost town.
empty buildings
with shuttered windows
around a patchy courtyard.
no wind, no rain,
nothing here
anymore.

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.

dragging a mattress

wake up to bleary shadows.
drag a mattress across the bedroom.
wedge it through the threshold.
lay it down on the kitchen floor while coffee brews.
move to the couch when it’s ready.
tell myself to stay awake.
the mattress thrown askew at the edge of the rug.
a rope leading from its corner to my ankle,
layered knots my fingers can’t maneuver.
take a sip.

balance the mattress on my back with my backpack.
fit it in the trunk of my car.
close the door and walk around—
the rope phases through the frame.
lines blend with the headlights’ glow.
the asphalt, visual white noise.
turn the stereo up.
stay awake.

drag the mattress up two flights of stairs.
hide it under my desk.
nudge the corner in when coworkers come by to talk about weekend plans.
hold firm as it pushes back.

a river drone as I drag its edge across the parking lot.
drive off without putting it in the car.
it bounces on the road, thrashes in the wind.
unharmed in the driveway.

lean it against the coffee table while I eat dinner.
scroll through twitter on my phone.
a snake’s tail coils around my forearm, constricts.
sigh, flick my thumb, take another bite.

A Tsunami Advisory

She asks if you’re awake.

Your eyes struggle open.

Her silhouette blurry in your tent’s doorway
against the morning’s overcast sky.

Your throat attempts a word.

She tells you not to panic —
a volcano erupted across the ocean;
the National Weather Service said
there’s a chance for a tsunami
along the coast where you’re camping.
“Not a warning, an advisory.”

You nod your head, eyes closing.

She zips the tent flap closed as she leaves.

Brisk air bites your face,
which peeks out of your cocoon.
You see waves tower over the shore,
lift your tent, rip its stakes out of the ground.
You wonder whether
you and your sleeping bag would float
along the surf to the cranberry fields down the road.

You wonder whether
that would be the worst outcome.
You see your classroom; your students;
a painted rock gifted by one, defaced
with a slur by another, left under your desk.
You feel failure, consider the possibility
they would be better off with another teacher.

You remind yourself:
your brain does this all the time,
there is evidence to the contrary.

You can’t see any.

a tether loosening

i fade in and out of the present
like a maple branch’s shadow on concrete
like the stars in a city’s sky
like a siren’s doppler effect
like the public’s interest in climate change

i fade in and out of the world
like a radio’s static on the highway
like a cell phone’s reception on the coast
like the tide of a rising sea
like a retina scar against clear blue sky

your lips keep moving, but words don’t make it ashore

a windshield, frozen over

sometimes,
you feel like a passenger in a car. 
in motion, but cannot see out of the windshield—
the fog too thick. 

sometimes,
you try to protect yourself,
give yourself a shield. 
it is thick, cold;
it buries you.