elfsbe

my father laid down tile before i was born,
and it remained long after he had gone
muddy red and orange patterns with
uneven grout lines and gritty textures
a reminder of my mother’s quiet rage
in every new piece of furniture
never stable, always teetering,
and never where initially intended

my mother painted the walls yellow,
“i love earth tones,” she said,
and bought a set of brown leather couches,
sticky under my thighs in the summer
the temperature set no lower
than seventy-five degrees
“to save money,” she said,
because we never had enough
with polished nails, and new shoes,
and cosmetic procedures to feel better,
but never pleased enough to touch a mirror

my sister took the bottom bunk
in our room, used black markers
to write messages above that would
remind anyone below that she was here
maybe our mother was right,
maybe she wasn’t the brightest,
maybe she wasn’t the funniest,
but she was here, and she cared,
“mommy, you shouldn’t drink so much,”
at the airport check-in counter, then
“you shouldn’t be such a slut,” in response

i’ve lived here for twenty-nine years
and i fear i’ll remain for twenty more,
walking the same pathways, feeling the
same grimy ground of my youth,
breathing the stagnant air, frigid with
unrealistic expectations, and
the burden of an inevitable failure,
the debts of unfinished projects,
the talents of fiction, bordering delusion,
the life i won’t touch by the skin of my teeth,
let alone my aching palms

sprained fingers hold parts together
with pressure and plaster, grasping
for everything,
for something,
for anything,
and now, for nothing

a timeline of life,
here
is where it starts,
and this
is where it ends,
but only in the present
my life can start anywhere,
flowing to infinity
through all these windows

what is grief?

the anger that boils your blood.
the chill of your bones.
the string of temptation
in your tumultuous core.
the bitterness in your belly.
the salt of tears down
your flushed cheeks.
loneliness, pilled across
the surface of your skin.
disappointment lingering in
the condensate of your breath.

do you dream of it?

perhaps, you awaken with
an ache between your thighs,
yearning ripping its way down
the length of your sternum, and
burying itself within your lungs.

what is grief to you?

i only ask,
because to me,
it is the fruition of a dream, and
nothing kills a dream quicker
than its own fulfillment.

i was put on this earth to dream up great love stories and write them for others to enjoy, but an imagination like mine makes experiencing a great love story of my own an impossibility.

some days, it feels most unfortunate, but other days, i realize that i would be nothing without my imagination.

if the trade-off for that is love, so be it.

i am taking the parts of me that i’ve lost—parts that i’d always treasured—and attaching them to the person i have blossomed into. if the world will not love me, i will love myself, and if nothing else, i will at the very least become someone i want to love.

i’d really rather be alone for the rest of my life than be with someone i have to snap my bones into shape for. i’m tired of losing little parts of me to accommodate someone else.

i am an amalgamation of everyone i’ve ever loved, and that’s a beautiful thing, but when the core parts of who i am are pushed to the wayside to make room for everyone else’s expectations, who am i really?

knowing myself shouldn’t feel like biting my own teeth. if anyone should understand me, it should be me, and me above anyone else.

if your hands don’t tremble
when they touch my cheek,
i’d prefer to be left alone.

i won’t be made to feel any less than
a woman worthy of being yearned for.