every day we walk on
your back.
we stick needles in
your spine and fill
your lungs with our smoke.
we look you in the eye while
we close our hands around your neck.
every day you
love us, cleaning our spills
to cradle us again.
we are fleas, but
you love us even when we bite.
you keep trying to grow.
we keep trying to
cut you down.
i don’t have the ocean
in my eyes
or fire in my hair.
i was given
her dark traits, and
though they paint my face,
my heart is safe
because you have taught me
it is not my sacrifice
to this world.
i do not need
a phenotype to know
you are a part of me.
every time i’ve hidden
my mind from the world,
you’ve reminded me
sometimes it is okay
to scream.
every time i’ve wanted to fly,
you’ve stood behind me
and watched me go–
you believed i would soar
long before i knew i had wings.
let it be evident
through all i create, that you have
watered me well.
the ebb and flow
of tides.
the sun sets
and rises.
the look of love in
your eyes.
everything changes,
everything dies.
You’re not falling, you’re flying.
You utter it gently, but
your eyes are accusing
when you say, “you can
swallow your problems in a pill and
watch them dissolve
in your stomach.”
I know what you really mean–
that I’m taking the easy way out,
that I’m cheating at life, that you have
real problems.
Because standing in the kitchen for half
an hour with a jar of peanut butter in my
hand, counting numbers in my mind and
debating whether to eat
is stupid.
Because skipping my best friend’s birthday
party because I can’t breathe
in large crowds
is dramatic.
Because having to write down everything
on a piece of paper before talking to
someone on the phone is just me being
a perfectionist.
Because making someone else order
for me at Subway since I am overwhelmed
by the options– because I can feel the people behind
me in line drilling their eyes into
my skull, is me
being shy.
Because when I’m having a panic
attack and I choke out, “I can’t breathe,”
I’m being emotional.
Because when I am down and
I can’t figure out why, I’m
being distant and cold.
Because mental illness isn’t
real. Because I’m just
weak. Because struggling with
what you take for granted every day
isn’t a big deal.
Every day I must teach
myself to walk, when everyone around
me is running.
I must learn to quiet
the earthquake in my throat when
my voice shakes.
I must learn to brush off
the darts you spit
at me.
You say I am weak,
and for so long I believed it.
But I am learning my own
strength.
Once you learn to love and accept yourself unconditionally, everywhere becomes home.
the atoms i am made of
are mostly empty space.
what does that make
me?
You spat fire,
but I pretended I was made of water
so you wouldn’t know you burned me.
Slowly, you evaporated me
until I was nothing– a puddle
on the sidewalk that
you stepped in on your way to
somewhere.
my heart is a mix
of the butterflies that have escaped
my stomach and
too much coffee, and
my mind is growing green grass
by the ocean shore where we’d
go skinny dipping
at night.
the air in my lungs is a shot
of hot summer sand, sunblock,
and newly pollinated flowers
chased by freshly mowed lawns
and sweat.
sweat that slides from my face,
down my spine, and in between my
bikini top.
sweat that slithers down your chest
and pools in your
belly button.
sweat like ocean water,
sweat like tears.
sweat that makes me
shiver.
They wrote those dictionaries, you know.
The ones that tell you
who you are – the ones
that you think define you.
Do not believe for one minute
you can be printed
in size 12 font with a semicolon
after your name.
You are the only one who can choose
your phonetics.
You are not Merriam-Webster
definitions.
You are an entire novel,
and you alone are the author.
Silenticel 