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  my life turned into

  a series of secrets

  I swallow down

  every time they try

  to come back up,

  a collection

  of russian nesting dolls

  taped shut so that

  no one gets inside.

  I have become trauma

  packed inside intrusive thought

  packed inside scar tissue

  packed inside brain tissue

  packed inside skull.

  I have become

  an ever-growing ring of defenses

  so that no one can find

  what is at my core.

  for once, I wish I could be the poem

  instead of the poet I’ve been.

  rather than forming metaphors on my tongue

  they’d be draped on top of my skin.

  for once, I wish I could be the receiver,

  instead of handing out pieces of heart.

  as a writer, a lover—I seem to be destined

  to give as I’m falling apart.

  The Night Persists

  lost:

  innocence.

  short hair,

  big brown eyes,

  almost always wears pink.

  last seen in large, round goggles,

  diving into ice-cold water

  just to feel fearless.

  if found:

  please tell her

  I miss her.

  I am not fearless

  anymore.

  “it seems like you’re writing

  the same thing over and over again.”

  that’s because I am.

  I write about this—

  the sadness,

  the backpack of melancholy

  that digs into my shoulder blades—

  because each poem

  isn’t authentic enough.

  I keep pouring out my soul,

  but the emotion

  gets lost in translation.

  I write about this

  because there is nothing

  else inside me to dig up.

  no more ideas. no more muses.

  just dirt.

  I write about this

  because I need

  to find myself again.

  and every poem that comes out

  is just another poster for a missing person—

  the person I used to be,

  the person I want to be,

  the person I was supposed to be.

  I will write about this,

  over and over and over,

  until I find them.

  so, yes.

  maybe I am writing the same thing

  over and over

  and over.

  but I have no choice.

  how else am I

  supposed to find myself?

  I am walking on creaky floorboards waiting for a crack—

  waiting for something to give out underneath me.

  I used to be reckless.

  I used to jump and run and dance

  (because you told me to—

  but it was my fault for listening).

  now, I know better.

  I’ve learned from experience

  that there are always splinters in the wood,

  tacks on the ground,

  a support beam missing.

  the arches of my feet will collapse

  and I will fall through.

  one day

  (it may be tomorrow,

  it may be next week,

  it may be next year)

  you will see who

  I really am,

  and

  (crack)

  “oh no”

  (crack)

  “I didn’t want you to get attached”

  (crack)

  “this isn’t right”

  (falling)

  “I’m sorry”

  (gone).

  are you fine with this?

  it is all I can give you;

  bones instead of skin.

  all is fair when love’s a war,

  and every day is a fight.

  tongues become the sharpest of swords

  as they clash over wrong and right.

  aphrodite and ares are playing their game,

  mixing their potions for fun.

  this love is a war and the battle is here:

  kiss the bullet and load the gun.

  come and sit with me.

  we can watch the day grow dark

  as we do the same.

  he told me that I could stop if I didn’t like it—but that he knew I’d like it. it’s been six months and I can still feel his hand creeping down my side. I feel it tugging at my shirt, sliding between layers before I push it away. he said he knew I’d like it. it’s been six months and I still can’t sit on the basement couch without thinking of the day I said I didn’t want to do anything and he pulled my arm and led me upstairs. he didn’t want to pressure me, he said. it was just natural, he said. he knew I’d like it, he said. I just hadn’t tried. it’s been six months and I still shy away when anyone tries to touch me that way. because an arm over the shoulder leads to a hand tracing down the back. he said he knew I’d like it. it’s been six months and I no longer sleep soundly, dreaming about zippers and sweaty palms and being too scared to say no. I never said no. I said I guess, I said I’m scared, I said if you want to, I said I don’t think I can do this, I said I’m sorry—or I said nothing at all. he told me that I could stop if I didn’t like it. but that he knew I’d like it. it’s been six months and my brain still tells me I should’ve liked it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it. I was supposed to like it.

  three months into treatment

  my therapist asks,

  does anyone know about

  your depression?

  I perk up.

  my depression?

  I never thought it was

  bad enough

  or serious enough

  or devastating enough

  for a diagnosis.

  I had myself convinced

  I was making it up.

  caroline,

  she looks at me—

  hunched over,

  sitting on the couch—

  why do you think you’re here?

  question:

  how will

  my mental illness

  affect my

  romantic relationships?

  what will happen

  when I become

  emotionally vulnerable?

  will they stay?

  hypothesis:

  if my significant other

  sees all the symptoms

  of my mental illness,

  then they will leave.

  if my significant other

  sees all the symptoms

  of my mental illness,

  then they will decide

  it is not worth it.

  they will decide

  I am not worth it.

  materials:

  one (1) emotionally

  dependent teenager,

  struggling with

  depression and anxiety,

  who believes she

  is unlovable.

  I have volunteeredr />
  to be this test subject.

  four (4) people willing

  to let me into their lives.

  each one will become

  an experimental group.

  they should believe

  they can save me,

  or fix me,

  or ignore me,

  or at least put up with me.

  unlimited (∞) triggers.

  these are necessary

  in order to bring out

  my symptoms.

  unfortunately,

  there is no control

  for this experiment because

  I will always have the sadness.

  there is no way to

  extract it from me.

  experiment:

  wait and see

  how much

  they can take of me

  before they leave.

  observations:

  the first trial

  lasted nine months.

  he had the

  same issues I did.

  we were both

  emotionally dependent.

  we both believed

  we could save each other.

  of course,

  we couldn’t.

  the second trial

  lasted less than

  three months.

  the breakup came

  out of nowhere.

  his final words

  to me were

  you worry too much.

  the third trial

  did not even last

  long enough to

  collect appropriate data.

  he left too quickly.

  inconclusive.

  the fourth trial

  is

  pending.

  conclusion:

  my hypothesis was,

  in some ways,

  correct:

  most people did not stay.

  some people tried

  to cure me,

  and got frustrated

  when they couldn’t.

  some people didn’t

  believe me,

  and got scared off

  when I had my

  first breakdown.

  some people simply

  got bored.

  but not all of them.

  and I know

  I shouldn’t rely on

  love from other people.

  but if someone else can love me,

  that means it’s possible

  for me to do it as well.

  conclusion:

  I am lovable.

  all writers,

  we seem to have our minds knotted.

  a bed head of the brain.

  and with ribbons of dark matter

  braided into our thoughts,

  we will never be able to

  comb out all the tangles.

  but still,

  with pen in hand,

  we brush and we brush and we brush.

  my memory of you is bittersweet;

  a sugarcoated bullet in my brain.

  and when I try to think of the deceit,

  saccharine drowns out all of the pain.

  I miss the way your neck curves into jaw,

  yet loathe myself for thinking that same thought,

  for month after each month, I never saw

  it was what I couldn’t give that you sought.

  you promised me you’d never ask for more,

  as fingertips, they traveled down my spine—

  is it my fault for not knowing before,

  if you’re the one who hid all the signs?

  you took from me ’til I was hollowed out

  yet you’ll always be the one I dream about.

  the first time I fell in love felt like my first time behind the wheel of a car. it was something so common, I had seen it in movies and while walking down sidewalks, and I had ridden in the backseat watching my parents together for years. but once I was in the driver’s seat, face-to-face with another person, nothing about it was familiar. I had to learn all the different gears, the emergency brake, the rearview mirror. I sped through reds I didn’t even see, stopped short at yellows, stalled at greens. my steering was wobbly and timid, living scared of everyone else on the road. but eventually, I got more comfortable. no longer hitting the curb on every right turn. realizing when to use the brights and when to slow down. I could turn on the radio, roll down the windows, and switch to cruise control. the issue with getting comfortable, though, is you begin to see the speed limit as a guideline. you begin to see stop signs as suggestions. that’s what love does. so I forgot to slow down at yields. used the backup camera instead of looking behind me. paid more attention to the person in the passenger seat than to the road in front of us.

  and I thought I’d be prepared for the first crash, I really did—I mean, they say it happens to everyone eventually. the films show them in slow motion with orchestral music in the background, and everyone ends up okay. but I never realized how painful airbags were until it was my head slamming into one. and I never imagined how the seat belt would dig into my shoulder, trying to hold me in place when my body wanted to break free. I never thought of the skidding tires, the shattered glass, the shattered hearts, the eerie silence after everything had calmed down. nothing prepared me for that.

  and once you have that first crash, yes, you move on—you drive again, you throw away the love letters and meet someone new. but you never let yourself get comfortable. I spend an extra few seconds at every stop sign now. my hands shake as I hold the wheel. my foot hovers over the brake, expecting something to go wrong. every time I pick up speed going down a hill, all I can think of is that eerie silence. smoke rising from the hood, heart beating out of my chest, breath slow and shaky, trying not to cry. I am constantly stuck in that moment. wondering where everything went wrong, wondering how I was too blind to see it coming, wondering why I didn’t slam on the brake fast enough or swerve out of the way in time. one second everything is fine, and the next I’m just a piece of the wreckage. the only way to prevent a car crash is to never drive in the first place. and I guess that’s why I won’t let myself fall in love again.

  when will love become greater than lust,

  or power not lead to pain?

  when will torture not hold hands with trust,

  or greed not be part of the game?

  when will writing not grow old and rust,

  or failure detach from fame?

  when will we realize our creations combust

  because we are the ones lighting the flame?

  play movie.

  two shoulders against each other,

  your head on mine.

  next scene.

  you smile at me from across the room.

  next scene.

  monday after school.

  our legs are intertwined,

  I’m lying on your chest.

  you kiss my forehead.

  rewind.

  play.

  you kiss my forehead.

  rewind.

  play.

  you kiss my forehead.

  pause.

  . . .

  rewind.

  play.

  you kiss my forehead.

  I let out a laugh and bury my face into—

  next scene.

  it’s dark.

  I’m whispering apologies into your shoulder.

  I tell you I don’t know if I can do this.

  and then—

  next scene.

  it’s light.

  your thumb is tracing my spine.

  you’re laughing at how I flinch at your touch.

  pause.

  were you unhappy in this scene?

  were you acting?

  you must’ve been, because—

  play.

  two days later you were gone.

  end of movie.

  main menu.

  scene selection:

  monday after school.

 
I know you don’t think of me anymore.

  I’m sure your memories have gathered dust.

  and yet I still find myself here at night.

  you kiss my forehead.

  pause.

  . . .

  rewind

  play.

  you kiss my forehead.

  rewind.

  play.

  you kiss my forehead.

  rewind.

  play.

  it’s just hide-and-seek.

  he slipped away, now I spend

  my lifetime searching.

  mars:

  I am tired of the fight,

  tired of combat.

  all it has done

  is leave red on my skin

  and make my own life

  feel alien to me.

  I have to decide:

  this is where I surrender,

  or this is where I finally

  make peace with myself.

  I’m sure you’ve been offered the world,

  you’re deserving of each inch of land.

  I bet you could sew up the valleys and mountains

  with just the touch of your hand.

  I’m sure you’ve been offered the world,

  but my pockets have all been worn through.

  so I’ll write you an ocean, I’ll write you a sky,

  and hope that’s enough for you.

  don’t mistake the freefall

  for floating.

  I did that once.

  I never saw

  the pavement coming.

  last night

  I felt it.

  happiness.

  I didn’t recognize the spark at first.

  I had forgotten what it was like.

  but then,

  there it was.

  a flash of light.

  a second of warmth.

  a glimmer of hope

  when all I had for years

  was darkness.

  and just the idea

  that this might not last forever

  is motivation enough

  to keep going.

  somehow, you got into my brain

  when you called me perfect, but

  I couldn’t believe it

  all the beautiful things you saw

  were never there; for I was filled with