“I have become undone.”
…did someone pull the thread on your sweater?
…and then did you walk away?
Are you now lying naked?
unravelled and exposed
how did I get to this place?
your fears and doubts
climb out of your eyes and tumble
across your cheeks
creating trails on your skin
so bare and empty
The same skin shakes
underneath the sheer blanket
yearning to be touched by a warmth
by a hope.
But nothing comes.
And so you lie there
stripped of all that you were
or could possibly be,
each moment stolen from your thoughts
as an echo of what used to be
of how you used to feel.
seeps into your pours
and sweeps through your veins
and the rush…
seizes your lungs
grasping and squeezing
leaving you breathless
gasping for some semblance
But the stark reality
sends you reeling
circles within circles
the dizziness consumes you
though you’re completely still
to close your eyes
would be glorious and thrilling
but to trust yourself that much…
would be danger in itself
and the string that once held you together,
the tendrils of who you once were
fall gently across your nakedness
revealing the imperfections
that you once kept within you
hidden from the world
they mark you
searing into that gorgeous shell
you tried to protect
tried to keep from falling apart
and everything keeps falling
the wind is crisp in this descent
freezing your bones
chilling the barrenness
of your soul
and you’ve forgotten
the safety of the self
as you lie naked on the floor
shuddering in defeat.
Me: I am undone
Friend: …Did someone pull the thread on your sweater?
You: And then did you walk away? Are you now lying naked?
Police Officer: My suggestion to you is to seize the frying pan.
You: …and throw it out the window.
I don’t remember most of the things
you said to me, and those I do,
time has blurred their sharp edges
to a dull ache I hardly even feel.
It’s almost like you were never real.
You: Dear Voice Inside My Head: Please get out of my head between the hours of 9am and 4:30pm Pacific Time, weekdays. Physics is already hard without you on my mind.
The first time you hugged me
was the night after you turned twenty.
I keep thinking about the space
between us in that hallway by your room,
and the suddenness of your thereness
how it stilled my lungs,
and how I haven’t been able to breathe normally since.
The last time you hugged me
was a year almost to the day
after we promised
we’d never lie to each other.
I keep picturing the space made as I drove away,
your ringtone pleading for me to come back
my heart wishing you hadn’t already broken me beyond repair
not knowing that the worst was still to come.
I am a pocket full of lost hope,
lint filled memories,
and gum wrapped in day old love.
In eleven days you’ll be twenty-four.
Saying that makes me feel so old.
The years stretched out like naive yearnings,
like summertime regrets crocheted into the stitches of winter
like I could have done everything in the world with you,
Me: But then how will you dream?
You: Everything is more dramatic when wearing pajamas.
You: Am I douchebag yet?
Me: I’ll let you know. There will be a big sign. And a parade outside your window.