Seaming

My CNF piece for a literary mag (Philadelphia Stories) is being republished for their 15th anniversary! if you’re in the philly or NJ area, you can get the mag for free! TW for mental health, abuse, suicide mention. take care of yourselves, lovelies 🥰

The piece is called Seaming, and is in equal parts a reflection of my complicated relationship with mental illness and my complicated relationship with my mother.

You can read it here. Please comment below if you have any thoughts on the piece! I’d love to know what you think.

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and in the dark we whisper things we’d never say in daylight, we sit on the porch and talk about the worst parts of ourselves and it feels so fluid and freeing.

im still here, i think. im still here and seeking that Great Big Romance ive wanted since i was a child. faced with it, i shied away, i broke my own heart before i could give you the chance.

see— this is what i do. this is how i am. a spitfire, an emotional sponge, scaring off future lovers and clinging to future abusers.

you are not the first, you will not be the last. this is a cycle doomed to repeat, over and over again. i am aching for something to heal me, but you can’t go around making doctors out of people who want nothing to do with sewing sutures upon wounds you created yourself.

the message is this: the message is received. i tie together the pieces ive lost in the explosion, sneak into your house to take back my heart, and i move on.

on to the next loss ill orchestrate.

an ode to my dead god

A PREFACE:
in hospitals, they don’t give you pens. 
                                                   just pencils. 
i hate the impermanence of writing
                                                   in pencil. 
                               as if everything 
could just be erased. forgotten. 
           i am used to scratching things out, 
angrily, 
                        until the paper 
rips. 

AN ODE TO MY DEAD GOD.

buoyed by
a catalogue
of existence, or, a litany
of Reasons To Exist,
my dead God and i
sit in conversation.

why?

i don’t need to say more,
God hears the rest before i speak it.
my dead God says nothing in return.
as if i should be grateful i was
caught red-handed, tears unshed
at my non-funeral.

i hate this pencil. it’s too small and
not nearly sharp enough.
there is no elegance in writing
with a pencil,
the words are thick and drunk,
blurring or slurring together.
i miss the days when they were
filled with lead, not graphite,
but thanks to the Herculean efforts
of one man i cannot hope
to poison myself.

why?

my dead God asked if i could stop
calling them my dead God.
i say i’ll stop when their people
stop using their name
to justify the death of my people.

when God stops being the reason
people can’t have rights.

when God steps in to stop
all this nonsense
happening today.

my dead God relents.

why?

my hand is hurting.
this poem is over.
i bet you wanted a happier ending.
ask my dead God.

i am borderline.

I am Borderline,
So I have no soul.
I am Borderline,
So I am a demon.

We are likened to,
—at worst—
vampires,
parasites,
cancers

We are likened to,
—at best—
conniving,
manipulating,
ruthless

I am Borderline,
So I am a black hole

— so i must be eradicated
— so i must be ejected
—so i must be escaped from

I am Borderline,
and when i was diagnosed,
it was a curse

They say,
“Do not let anyone a Borderline into your orbit on any basis”
(but do they know I agree?)

They say,
“If you have a relationship with a Borderline, they will ruin your life.”
(but do they know I agree?)

They say,
“Watch out for these people”
(but do they know I agree?)

“AVOID”
They say
“AVOID”
“AVOID”
“AVOID”

it’s funny,
since,
all i am
is a void.

I read a licensed psychiatrist state:

“People say that Borderlines can change but often times, they wreck havoc on their spouses, children and/or parents and the abuse lasts a lifetime.”

I have heard:

“Remember, they will never improve – no matter how optimistic and hopeful you are, that brief period of loving affection will give way to profoundly disturbing, explosive rage. Always.”

I have heard:

“Kill yourself.”

Borderlines are…evil
Borderlines are…dangerous
Borderlines are…bullies
Borderlines are…abusive

I am Borderline, and I am inhuman. That is what they say. I am Borderline, and I cannot be trusted. I am Borderline, and I am damaged goods—not worth anyone’s time.

Why is it,
That people can
—to some extent—
understand how depression changes a person’s behaviour?
understand how anxiety changes a person’s behaviour?

Why is it,
That ‘it is not them, it is their illness’ applies to all else
—But borderline?

I guess what I’m say is—is this me? And is this all you see?

the last ten days of august.

what could empty you?

          in the weight
of our divines
the un    thinking
deep within us
strokes of pure spirit
      our fleeting fall

labour — the early war;
                 original sin
in between the earth and sky
            is the shade
            of the galaxy
why limit sorrow?
why blank the source?
             conquered,
             we go on
and put life first

ignore the    remnant artifacts
                      merciless undoings
turned pools,
                      nudge    of time
ordinary notes of care
unleashed poisons
etched
into skin

history’s suitor to time,
         shards,
                      debris
remember   remember
           remember
the blank silence echoing

days go on,
        fewer,
               sleep escaping
crying out
                   it was a home.

cursed nights into mornings,
         who can make of this?
what once was theirs,
          whatever is left?

emptied, murdered, obliterated
             an annihilation
of the ego
              the anguish,
                     the anguish

eyes still seeing last touch
feeling
ancient alone abandoned
what is a year
              a month
               a decade
but a moment?

—lost and burned
            futile devices,
fervour’s writing

mailed to the void

and the sea?
        the sea?

the saltwater dead, my love,
the saltwater dead

the last great epitaph
of our love:
           i am nobody
           i am nobody
           and you
           are gone

oh, August, a season deceased,
tell me again
the hieroglyph
of your name

nostalgia

do i still hear your voice?
back of my head
sings songs of your words
sickly sweet
like honeydew drops
in a glass of milk

an old movie
playing on repeat
the bike wheel turns round
and round

life in a snow globe
shaken to my core
touching the ends
of my existence
seeking to reach
spring

i find myself asleep
in a green meadow field
under a starless sky

3AM Nov 17th

It’s 3AM and you’re buying groceries.

You just so happened to fall in love with the girl who loved grocery stores, and in the fallout where the lines were drawn somehow she earned the right to each and every major franchise. The damn girl managed to leave her essence in every single one, and you can’t bear the risk of running into her and pretending everything is normal, dandy, peachy-keen. Somehow you manage to still look your best, though. Just in case.

It’s 3AM and you’re buying groceries.

Like usual your eyes sit on the back of your head, sensitive to every stare, from the few other poor souls who chose the same lifestyle.

You stare longer than you need to at the options for toilet paper, trying your best to forget how it was always your turn but she ended up buying them anyway.

It’s 3AM and you’re buying groceries, you remind yourself.

It has been 5 months and some change since you were together.

5 months and some change since you stopped picking up a sweat every time you were out together in public. She was never like that. It didn’t matter to her what others thought, her hand would always graze yours with a careless but deep love while yours twitched. Then again, she never sat in the closet for five years too long while the rest of the world she knew screamed ‘dyke’ at her. She touched you without a marred heart, without fear.

It’s 3AM and you’re buying groceries.

After a certain time the fluorescent light becomes a foreign entity and the place you’ve been existing in ceases to be and you’re back in your bedroom holding her as she breaks and falls apart before bed. Her love made you feel a way you never had before, never accepted before this moment. While you sat hidden away praying to change, God sent her into your path to show you He is not those who claim to speak His words. In her you found peace, serenity in falling apart, a feeling like maybe you’ve been whole all along, maybe you were never broken in the first place.

But things end. Things end, like they always do. Suddenly your house is no longer a shared home, no longer filled with her harmonious laughter or the musical silence. You’d always found silence to be a lovely thing with her, but now it’s deafening.

It’s 4:03AM and you’re still staring at the toilet paper.

You finally decide on a pack and move on, thinking you’re the only person in the world who choked up while standing in the grocery store in the middle of the night. Your lungs are ripped from your chest, and you feel the need to sit down, but you can’t—you’re in a grocery store.

for the weary

we begin as small balls of clay,
with gentle hands
and a warm touch,
with our hearts planted
firmly on our sleeves
and a smile wider
than the widest canyon

we begin as soft sponges,
absorbing the world around us
filled to the brim
with the water of emotion
with minds capable
of dreaming up anything

we begin as constellations,
a blank page
ready to be mapped
ready to be made
into music

somewhere along the way
begins the first shattering
the first door slammed
the first back turned, unmoving
the first losses
the first mourning

somewhere along the way
some sooner than others
learn their heroes have turned to dust,
have left them behind,
have left them to live
on their own

somewhere along the way
the world teaches us to build
stone walls around our heart
that emotion is weakness
that it is wrong
to fall apart

somewhere along the way
children become adults
far too soon

starting over

i fell backwards into oblivion,
i let your hands take my soul,
my words were erased
by your touch
i cannot think,
cannot eat,
cannot do much of anything
but you run around
with your heart and body intact
and you know nothing
of my pain

bruised
bleeding
bereaved
i take all my broken parts,
and i begin again