1
call me dramatic / I think I’ll die if I stay here / by which I mean, I’ve burnt every bridge with a sharp tongue / by which I mean, I stopped tolerating small people / by which I mean, my therapist says that boundaries are uncomfortable for everyone but necessary for all / by which I mean, I am not crazy / by which I mean, my home is my sanctuary / by which I mean, get the fuck out / by which I mean, I think it’s pathetic to get drunk at 2pm / by which I mean, it’s pathetic to get drunk every day / by which I mean, I buy too many plane tickets / out
2
another body. this place collects them
like butterflies, dried and pinned to the fabric
of small-town anguish. people are born
to die young here, drowning in generational trauma.
I hear the stories, attend the memorials.
my heart aches. how do you process grief
when loss doesn’t stop?
3
no one talks to anyone / they talk behind backs, behind bars / hurl accusations / apologies never come / from conspiratorial tongues / my therapist says that intent means nothing, impact means everything / he calls me your girlfriend / over and over / your girlfriend / your girlfriend / as if I am nothing but an appendage that begs / removing / they all do / I resent you for this, sometimes / I want to tear flesh from limb with my words / I want to bare my teeth, pomegranate seeds dripping from feral lips / I want to watch it all burn and rise / from the ashes
4
happiness doesn’t live here: trust me,
I have searched for it in the tallest trees on glacial
mountains, at the bottom of bottles.
don’t you understand – this happiness
comes with a sugared rim. don’t you understand –
I am living the wrong life.
I want to write of home. instead I write elegies
for a place I cannot love.
5
generosity drowns me / and it is my own fault for needing everyone to like me / so I smile and laugh too loud / at unfunny jokes / accept passive-aggression as a sign that I am doing something right / it doesn’t count as crying if salt tears mix with shower droplets / I wish I could feel at home / my therapist says that for every negative thing, you need five positives to balance it / so I leave water for you beside the bed each morning / an offering to offset harsh words / it is not your fault I am rootless
This poem was originally published on Vocal Media, August 2023.
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