vessel

and with a breath

earth opens

the Titanic sinks in my stomach

I become a black hole

and nothing else

taking and taking

patterns in repeat into tomorrow

I will cry and dry my eyes again

and when I sleep I leave a body vacant for the night

I am a vessel for the things that happen and the ways they make me feel

they enjoy the shade of being hidden

and escape

I am left to take up space

exposed

unconcealed

with every layer lost

pulsating heart and other vital organs hanging on the walls

in glass cases and your afterthoughts 

words are not enough

come see and believe

and so the old ghosts haunt the gallery to laugh and stare and take their photos

‘do you remember when…’

knowing the display

a joke awaiting punchlines like a sentence still withheld

helpless tissue on canvas

assorted hopes and tricks that used to work

deconstructed for what?

echoes of affection

I remember

when what we said was what we meant

and you use words like strings to pull me with or without knowing

does it matter if you mean it if it works?

ask me anything

my dietitian asks me to think about my bones. he approaches every problem with a willingness to laugh I find refreshing. the scans remind me I am weaker than I should be. there are things I can be doing to rebuild and restore, I just need his help to make a plan.

my friends ask me to think about my boundaries. they listen to my woes and ask me how I'm feeling. my inability to answer only warrants more questions. their faith in my worth endures another day of ego death. I thank whichever of my past selves did the work to earn this love.

my phone asks me to care. I read the headlines to find my pulse. it feels perverted and I do little with the feelings. there is another world in which I do more. I wish I had coordinates.

my heart asks me to listen. I can't close my eyes without seeing the glow of your name etched somewhere in the dark. you're excited to see me tomorrow. I'm very happy you're home.

how to talk

a cigarette and a pacifier on the tiles of the public bathroom floor

my brother tries to teach me how to talk about my feelings

I am silenced by the labour of my own imagination.

it is easier to listen and watch than to act and speak, though I can only bite this tongue so much. if I care and I do then I owe a little more. you don't live in this skull. you haven't seen the writing on the ceiling. would you come in and take a look?

only flames

on the eve of her birthday the mystic holds a picnic by the creek. friends and followers lounge on blankets in a circle round the food. the air is warm for this time of year and afternoon, but gentle under overcast skies promising a storm. I arrive a little late for liking with guacamole and a mask. having spent the morning in my head it's good to try to be outside.

tomorrow's birthday girl dictates a ritual for her congregation, willing us to scribe our secrets onto paper: something to let go of, something to hold onto, something to bring to life. I sit on the trunk of a fallen tree and write what sense I can draw from the well:

hiding what and how I feel (for fear)

the ears / hearts that listen / ask me to believe that I am not too much

the belief that I have no reason to be scared.

being a fire sign, the mystic instructs me to burn my paper. I exchange my secrets with a stranger. we share a lighter, holding on until our words are only flames. the earth signs bury theirs in the ground.

the storm never comes. I wash dishes in the sink and tell myself that nothing's wrong. I wash my face and brush my teeth and listen to your favourite song.

the toy you want

your name on my lips at a party full of strangers at the end of someone else's tram line. big houses with trimmed lawns. neighbourhoods that would feel just as alien in the sun. I play the shadow of a writer friend who knows the birthday girl, wearing silver to fade into the theme. he offers me wine in a paper cup and asks about you. wishing my answers were different / taking shape in brighter colours, my confession leaves me feeling even smaller. he knows how I feel and we can laugh about our bleeding hearts. we watch another of our friends unknowingly woo the affections of two boys by the pingpong table. their smiles obscure their rivalry. she laughs in blissful ignorance.

crawling through the witching hour I wash my face and fall into my pillow. I think about the gaps and beg my bedroom ceiling for an explanation. are you too kind to tell me what's changed? I cry because I'm tired of guessing and pretending not to care. I cry because we've stopped saying things we used to. I cry because I've let you see me and you've let me see you too. holding myself I play the supercut: your eyes under the lids of my own, in the dark, ghosts I've known and want to keep at least a little longer. I cry because you run like water, like the tears and days since hearing your voice.

the sun shines in the morning. I do my laundry and try not to think of you and whatever star you're chasing today. I miss you like you used to say you missed me. and I want to be the toy you want to play with again. how much does that make you want me less?

you and I / am and are

if I am to be

and as I am (it seems)

how am I to help but want

between being and my dreams?

if you are for now

and as you are (with me)

why should we be scared to glow?

I miss your colours

they keep changing

what don’t you want to be?

other things

following the sun I walk along the stream, taking what I can from what remains of the day. lost boys serenade me through golden hour through my phone. the waves are warm and gentle on my face. the melodies are melancholic and familiar in a way that forges momentary comfort.

the river leads me to a lake I used to run around. by the water fountain stands the playground I could swear keeps moving inches, the one we climbed to glow in on the night we didn't want to sleep. I watch the sun kiss the window of our tower on its way into tomorrow. the boys sing about writing the worst love song in the world like a spell or anti-curse. I think about the poetry and what I dim in fear of being too much.

you leave me guessing in the gaps. I care too much to not play along for now, though I wish we could see each other a little better like before. it doesn't have to be as heavy in my head. it isn't when you're here. ibis hang from trees like plastic bags over the creek. if I had their wings I swear I'd be doing other things.