This Isn’t Me,

The girl I was and the woman I am reconcile in tides. Coursing warm waves and biting cold foam, dancing in circles. Becoming one another, and abandoning one’s self in permanence.

There is an understanding in burning high rises that only it’s occupants can gather—that the rapid footsteps and baited breath do little for longevity if the staircase is ash and the elevator an oven.

No, the hurried panic is not for survival of the body, but a hunt for another. A body heat almost indiscernible undulating between the flap like flames—like pop ups out of a picture book. You may think it madness to seek heat in a fire, but this is a heat of the soul, a desire to die in embrace. To know a heart beat’s breath against your own.

An understanding that if life must be unkind, you must never let it be alone.

I was his worry stone.

he couldn’t pick my face out of a crowd,

Or name a single interest of mine;

he couldn’t bother to wash his mug in the sink,

Or put the coffee on in the first place;

he couldn’t braid my hair while he spoke,

Or untangle the nest he made.

All he could do was rub his hands together,

And wonder where I’d gone,

after eroding me away.

How on earth did you find me?

Oh sweet siren, every inch of water you touch tastes of sugar. I couldn’t lose you if I tried.

Well you ought to at least try.

Bite your tongue lass.

Or what?

Or I’ll do it for you.

Rotten sailor. I’ve no desire to play with you anymore. Leave me be.

How can you lure me off my ship and not even finish me? What am I to do now, drown?

You’d better not. I’d snap your neck myself and let the ocean have you but she retches at the taste of pork.

I’m no pig you finned whore!

Then why’s your nose look like that? Go to shore and dry off before your wife finds you wet, piglet.

—Diary of a Siren

In another world, I am strong. And withstanding, and sure of myself. I pray she’s well, for I certainly am not.

A sudden calm washed over me

I felt no need to rush

To the finish line, to the next milestone, to anything ever again

My heart quieted for the first time in a long time

And beat gently in my chest, the way a child’s hand is held by her mother’s.

Share with me your shame, distill your weakness so that I may drink it like wine. Your secrets are precious to me, nothing shocks a man like me.

Why do I crave love so much that I lie to get it. I dawn facades to taste sugar with a tongue that is not mine. Is it still sweet? Is anything truly my own?

The Dog’s Way

I do wish I could be gentle with myself. I really do. But my way is the dog’s way, anything I don’t like on me I chew up and swallow. I carry everything I hate in my gut because it is all I have to take. And I cannot bear to live hungry.

Why is it whenever I am alone I slip my hand beneath my black wool jacket and find any wound I can and open it again, to bleed, to bleed. Is it really my destiny to bask in life so little and ruminate on the scarcity for the rest of it? Is my stomach shrunken and my heart empty, am I a vessel that cannot be filled and can only watch as others are?