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I can count the number of times I’ve done something right on my fingers. The number is zero.
Actually, can nothing be counted? Do you count zero or do you count from zero? I suppose it would depend on the perspective… Mr. In, is there really no other way?
can a canvas not, at base, at heart be that wall across from that glass lamp; glares emanating from the forbidding rule of touch. Must you come in with your bleach and cloth on bended knee, on a dozen pills for that line on your forehead and curse wax for its sticking and color for never staying put. The child, small, cannot reach The place where you’ve locked their crayons away; You believe the key gift enough You’ve never believed in pineapple clouds. Trigger warning: words relating to violence and death. Alludes to homelessness, Palestine genocide, mental illness, and the state of this country.
the sinking feeling my my chest informs me that we are doomed bright lights smart phones happy pills just turn it off i can’t go outside pay your bills that pregnant girl doesn’t look older than 15 don’t look the streets are crowded cars rush in urgency it is Sunday i know you looked at me you didn’t stop do you see anything? I know this church well. The Walters, our family friends that are faithful church goers,
would drag me here after every sleepover. Us kids would run up and down the aisles when the service finally ended; stealing the pastor’s keys and army crawling under the pews to keep them from him. I’m crammed into those same pews now, the cushions on them are a gross mossy green and the thick air smells like fading incense and Chanel No. 5. It’s not the old, ornate, celestial kind of church. I think it was built in the 70s and hasn’t been touched since. The organ strikes a heavy chord and we all instinctively rise. I tell myself so aggressively not to lock my knees that I wonder if I’ve whispered it aloud. My stomach knots and my heart speeds up. If I lock my knees, I know I’ll faint, or maybe I’ll throw up. The vomit would blend right into these ugly green pews. What a comfort. A pale blue belt, golden luminescence
Where the lily wilts. Entangled with the vines beneath the surface, Divine gift to Gaia. The della robbia child. The watcher observes, & the ache starts when I see the heifer
plodding across tilled dirt, belly low & pregnant in the sunset’s handsome shadow. & she pants against the grass, ear tags swinging sublimely even in their punched-through vigor. & I go home & pull my eyelashes out in clumps, & look at my snarling reflection until my face is lost in blotchy red shadow. & how is it that furious animal feels easier than being a woman? & at 13 my mother tells me the color red is womanhood’s delicate mark but I thought red was for charging bulls & the angry pound of sweat. & I would rather trample the red flag in unseeing brawn than watch my reflection swirl The second that ‘want’ turns into ‘should,’
She becomes a withering flower, ripped from its damp soil, placed on a windowsill that only sees sunless grey, and dying limply in a dirty glass cup. Mother orders a martini. It’s her third, but the flight attendant doesn’t know that. Before we
boarded the plane, she downed two in the gaudy airport bar. She crushes the olive between her teeth, which she never does because she hates olives. So, because she’s eating it, I know what that means. I tap the back of her free hand. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.” She’s dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “I’m sure those builders needed a drink every now and again.” Around us, everyone is settled in. The engines’ constant low humming is the only sound. I have the aisle seat, so I can see the bored, empty faces of the other passengers; some read, some type away on laptop keyboards, and some have headphones in while a film plays on the screens fixed into the back of the seats. A few just enjoy the view out the window. It bothers me how Mother always wants the window seat, but never looks out of it. What a waste. I crane my neck to see over her clumsy hands—the thin layer of clouds veiling some rural part of southern Ireland, the sun hanging above us like an ornament, the horizon slicing through the haze. While I’m focused on the view outside, Mother orders another martini. “Less ice this time,” she tells the flight attendant, who obliges with a curt nod. I give Mother a look. She returns it, and for a moment we’re just staring at each other. “Oh, my god, Millie. I’m not getting sloshed. Just a couple drinks. Why are you always on my back?” Trigger Warning: eating disorders
i can feel myself balancing on a ledge, trying not to slip back into who i once was, but the pull of it is almost too much to resist. if i’m not careful, it’ll drag me four stories to the ground, killing me upon impact. i feel it in the morning when the cold water hits my empty stomach. on the days when i open my mother’s sewing box to hem a skirt that once was too small and see a tape measure. when i see walk around the grocery store and see a scale, everything in me longing to step on it and finally know the magic number that could make or break my day. my brain says life would be easier if i was starving, and sometimes i think it’s right. lowly
lonely low-key i miss the old me a girl more carefree less ugly sweet like honey no filter off-kilter please don’t kill her she’s pure, clean serene, sleeping the sleep of a seemingly innocent dream girl don’t scream |