day 15

In her head, she's in gym class, middle school.
White shirt, name written in a box on the front,
pulling at the bottom and sending telepathic
brain waves to the coach to stop the game, send
her to the office, bench her.

But instead, coach pulls a bag from the gym closet,
dumps out 20 dodgeballs. The rubber smells.
She tugs harder, scooting further to the back,
making herself small. She's afraid and unathletic--
the perfect combination to not be picked for teams.

Then, she's abroad in college. And instead
unathletic and afraid, she's drunk and mad.
Chainsmoking outside a bar named after a bridge
in another European country but with a punny twist.
It irritates her. The girl he picked instead, some yoga chick
who tried to fill in her brows last week and went too dark,
comes out to apologize for any pain, to say she's hurt
too and that he's a horrible person with PTSD who needs help.

Tomorrow, she'll be here and wondering why
everyone stops talking to her and what it is about her
that makes people choose someone else.
Wondering when she'll love herself enough to fix it all.

day 14

In the car the other day, my mother commented
on my nails, said they were long. I keep them short
and bit off at the ends. Sometimes bleeding.
Recently though, long has been the theme. I like
how they sound as I tap on the keyboard or drum
on the counter, waiting.

Waiting for that other shoe to drop, as every romantic
comedy says. Waiting for my best friend--or the girl
I hate the most--to be picked over me.
Waiting for that moment when he says,
you're such a good friend.

Friends, I used to paint my nails to coordinate
my outfits. Black, blue, and most recently, gold.
Picking at the nail polish kept me occupied from the nail
itself. As though, if I don't look up, I don't see the happy
and they don't see my insecure.

Insecure that I forgot to paint them this weekend. And today,
in the shower, I peeled off a nice, one-inch-long pinky nail.
Half of me felt satisfied. I sabotaged my nails
like I sabotaged him--acting like I didn't care or cared too much,
whatever that is exactly.

I sabotage so it doesn't hurt when I get picked last.

day 13

I sliced my thumb open, right under the knuckle, with a pocket knife on Friday.
My mother called as it happened, and when I said, oh that's a lot of blood,
you could tell she thought it was on purpose.

I would probably answer the phone during my own suicide.

In the shower, I picked at the scab after it softened. I had to pull a little. It hurt.
The pain of my thumb silences the echoes through our three bedroom apartment at three thirty
in the morning, as one roommate thinks she's being quiet when her boyfriend flips her over on the bed and she laughs, while the other opens our front door, turning off the alarm, just arriving home.

I continue to pick at the scab, now fresh and bleeding. I'm laughing, bent at the knees and holding my hand slightly above my head for elevation. There's enough pressure in my life.
The subtle once over by thin women outside the store, gathered around their phones
and long named coffee drinks. The blunt grandmother who tells me not to let food decide my mood.
The paranoia from behind my back giggles or too long glances.

That pocket knife went back in my desk, with my binder clips and multicolored highlighters
and five different pens that all write black ink. My blood seems darker than I imagined.
Do we ever really take notice of the exact hue until it drips down arms and onto the carpet
and starts to disturb other people? It's always about the other people.

My mother called again, shortly before she walked into work, shortly after bandage number two
and asked if I had talked to a boy recently--a boy I last heard from two years ago. A boy, who
if I spoke to again, I would pick not a scab, but scarred skin. And if I have to answer another well-meaning question about why I'm still single, or are boys blind, or what about babies, I'll laugh
and shrug, sure. But warn you, there's a lead bubble raging in my throat, full of shame, self-hate,
and scabs picked off in distraction.

In the shower--hot water and soap streaking down my back, mixing with blood droplets on the floor--as I tore open my left thumb, I resolve to go to bed hungry. Waking up empty means my body worked harder over night, that and the inside sting out-screams the outside sting and distracts one more day.

day 12

Two weeks ago, my days revolved around grits.
The recipe, consumption, storage of grits. And bacon.
Which demanded just as much-- the oven
for an extra minute ruined a whole day
 but not enough is the same.

Now, my day revolves around pricing and graphics
and waiting for an email instructing me to go.
Two weeks ago, the music played on a loop,
I knew REM played after Filter and before Mariah Carey.
Two weeks ago, I knew people better than myself.
I knew the restaurant would fill, at least with laughter.

I knew. Now, I know nothing. Not if I would speak,
if I'd be crushed by both complaints and praise,
if anyone would miss me like I miss the grits.

day 11

I don't know how to write anymore.
Instead, I'm limboed like Dante between
two--not quite worlds, because, cliche--
but segments of my brain that register
the everyday.

One knows you, the English language,
and what it means when my eyes crinkle.
It understands that turning pages in a book
entertains me, that my cat, when he squeaks,
desires kibble.

This one speaks in fluctuations and in hands,
recognizes I like people and pasta. But when
I quit paying attention for more than five minutes,
like a light switch, I'm gone and the other
comes to.

The other thinks everyone's happy is too loud,
that pasta tastes of cardboard so why eat
and that wanting to talk to you is crazy.
It paints pills, carpet cutters, deep sleep through
it all.

The other speaks monotony and in stares, never
lets me leave the bed. It lives in glaze. A sludgey
blur that clears only when angry or my cat chirps
in hunger.

I see my happy in the sleep where subconscious squats
birdlike on the crack between light and slow-wave.
I see my happy just before a melody crushes the silence
of the other and crashes they crash into each other
once again.

day 10

First, you write a list. But not any list.
A list of things you'd do only
if it was your last sun. Because,
it might be. And wouldn't
that be a terrible gift?

Then, you fold the list in half,
and half again, stuff it deep
in your pants pocket or bra,
tell no-one where it is. But then,
tell everyone. Because we want
everyone to miss us. To know
if they would have talked to you
half a second longer, or
something else, just slightly.
To be the center just once more,

the sun. After that, don't do
anything on the list. Not because
you don't have the time or the money--
you do, if you want to--
but because not finishing allows
another to do it in your name.
You're one for the people, after all. 

Finally, you don't die.
Not in a fiery crash that leaves
everyone gaping at the news,
shocked and tearless that you
could go so tragically.
Not by cancer, so slow--or quick--
that you suffer daily or never
have a chance to say goodbye.

No, you're not on anyone's list.
Instead, you write your name
at the top of the one in your bra
or pocket next to the word, lives.
Because isn't that
what we all don't want to do?

day 9

Damning My Vertebrae

It wasn't until I turned six that my mother realized I couldn't shit.
I spent toddler years avoiding it—took too much time,
letting a pancake form kept me in control.
My mother would shake her finger and yell as I drove circles
in a Barbie Jeep, frustrated I wouldn't cave to the body.

We tried suppositories, syringes shoved up with chemicals
bubbling inside, as if I was an older male.
My mother watched my insides on a screen, pointed
and gasped in awe while I attempted to caulk my body
together like tiles on my bathroom floor, cemented an anger
inside my body—built a home for the hatred I couldn't let out.

For years, I’d push, push, push at myself, slam
literal walls until everything fell away except for those
holding my insides together. I ached to slice down the small
intestine, crawl inside and glue parts together, inject
my veins to die—anything to keep my body from itself.

My mother blathered on about details of a will she didn't need yet,
and I studied markings in her ceiling tiles and hardwood,
pissed about how archeologists deciphered skeletons without codes,
about how my body didn't have it’s own codes, even after my doctor
touched my toes together and watched me clench my eyes in pain.

I ache, but to carve out the anger my body builds.
There is no knife for this. If I could climb inside myself,
there would be no chipping away— lovingly, gentle.
There would only be TNT and hatred, damning
my vertebrae to another type of Hell where everyone’s in pain.