breadcrumbs

The day comes when he doesn’t call. You don’t want him to, you don’t know what you would even say if he did, but it still stings like tearing off a bandaid too swiftly. Sharp, quick, this flare of pain that dies quickly but leaves a sort of ache behind. You try to rationalize that he never loved you, and now he doesn’t have to pretend to -- but when you were little, he did all the voices when you asked for stories, he sang you Disney songs in the car, he bought a movie because he thought you would like it. You were his favorite once upon a time, before you grew up. . You tried to make yourself vulnerable for him, trusting that he wouldn’t bite, but he pierced you with the biggest teeth you’d ever seen. He took your wrists and twisted. . It has been years now since you severed all the ropes that tethered you to him. It has been years since the word ‘Papa’ has sat in your mouth like poison. It has been years since you heard his voice on anything but old recordings of sisters and brothers you used to love, all the people that you had to sacrifice in order to free yourself.

you are in love with a girl. . there is a jar on your bookshelf adorned with her name and full of coins and folded up dollar bills. The Laura Jar, you have lovingly called it; an aluminum beacon of hope disguised as a bookend. . a continent away, she laughs bubbly affection over the telephone line. she calls you beautiful in a way that feels like she means every word. . though your bed is empty now, for the first time, you can envision a future in which it won't be. . and when you walk your fingers across the map, the distance -- whether in miles or in years -- doesn't seem so far.

To sit here next to these delicate things And see the tenderness in their dark eyes; To feel the soft touch of hoof, paw, or wing, And share this sweet moment with other lives. This gentle birdsong, that lion’s proud mane, Every scale of every fish in the sea, Claimed by we humans for humanity’s gain, Stripped of their grace and freedom to be. If mankind could recall the state we shared, With no cages nor fences to keep them, No guns to kill them, no highways to scare, Just man and beast and the earth between them. Until all God's creatures are loved as we, I will lend them our peace and chance to be free.

these tumblr kids and their made-up genders. like you cannot be someplace in the middle; you must be right-or-left, give-or-take, man-or-woman. curves are made to fill out dresses. flat chests and deep voices belong to those who wear BOY on their lapels like a badge. . i was born in january and my mother called me GIRL. sweet, pretty, quiet girl. if i dressed as BOY, that's okay. if i spoke as BOY, that's okay. if i laughed into the mouths of girls and wore shirts that hid my breasts, that's okay. . if i call myself not GIRL, not BOY. not quite anything. somewhere between. . then i have to choose. . i learned to love WOMAN as a second skin, though one i felt never fit me. i grew out my hair and wore dresses and called myself PRINCESS and FEMME and everything but BOY, everything but NEITHER. . i wore tenderness like a threat. like a baring of teeth. like a noose. . softly, now--- so gentle, slipping on THEY  like a scarf in winter. folding SHE into fondness to hang in my closet should i want to look back and remember. pressing femininity into a drawer to be taken out and worn again when i need it; not a permanent skin, but a shirt, a jacket, a lipstick. . wearing THEY like i've always worn it. freckles under the eyes. the mole on my left shin. flecks of gold in green irises and ringlets in my hair. . story of a girl who swallowed sunlight to feel warm again, and shed her armor to remember her skin. story of a girl who wasn't a girl at all.

there was once comfort in being at my worst. the ugliest parts of my soul reach out in yearning to return to that state of nonbeing; not well, but not dying, either, old infected wounds that refuse to heal and that most cannot even see. . my writing was at its best then. . i am not well, but i am better than i was, and i still speak about my bipolar disorder like it is my constant companion. it does not leave me, but it keeps so quiet sometimes that i forget that it still lives inside of me, still breathes itself to life with my lungs. . some people name their illness to help it become more manageable, to recognize it when it comes knocking. i simply call mine by its title because i don't want to be defined by something i cannot control. Bipolar wraps my body in scars and trauma like a blanket and makes it feel like home. it gives me wings to soar with, and cuts me down with the same tools. . my scars remind me of the warmth i felt in being sick, like Sadness is an ex-girlfriend i cannot stop texting, like photo albums full of pictures of my Mania that i will not stop revisiting. every spent dollar on something i didn't need. every hour i felt superhuman. every cut against my skin and every person i have allowed between my legs. . Bipolar exhausts me in a way no lover can. it works me to the bone and wrings me dry. Bipolar is a full time occupation and fuck anyone who has ever told me otherwise, who has pushed me toward yoga or green tea with sickly sweet intentions. . Bipolar may have felt like home to me once because i knew no other way to be; but wishing myself empty is not synonymous with living, and there are better things to write about than pain.

no poems today, the poet said. i am too tired to come up with anything pretty to say. the words won't come, the phrases won't fit. there is nothing lovely or inspirational in any of my usual routine--- the brushing of teeth, the combing of hair, the quiet damp outside and the dark within. day in, day out, there is nothing worth mentioning, not on paper, not immortalized. . the poet held her breath until the lightheadedness made sense, then let it out again. . there's nothing, the poet said. there are no words today, no poems to write. when things take a turn for the worst, she said, talk to me then. things might look beautiful when they're on fire.

simple things. something sweet on the tongue. rainy tuesday afternoons and water dripping from the eaves. warm socks and the way they slide on a cold floor. . (simple things. her voice on the telephone. her laugh when she's sleep-drunk. the way she makes 'i love you' feel so honest.)

early morning wakens you with frosty little kisses and freezing toes. the house sits silent and still in the last few dredges of sleep; nothing but the low rumble of traffic outside, the quiet whisper of your breath. soft animal heavy at your feet. soft body heavy beside you. there are things that must be done, as things are always done, but it's so warm beneath the blankets, and the world will still be there when you're ready.

this year is already the year of lowered expectations; i no longer ask to be painted pretty, to find happiness in unexpected places, to be the sun in someone's turning world. . i ask only for enough peace that i might not hurt the ones around me, and i ask that if this year forces me to learn to breathe smoke, then i breathe enough of it to spit fire. . i ask to still have the strength to smile at people i don't know without fear of their intentions. . i ask for a heart strong enough to hold myself and my mother, too. . i do not ask for much, just that this year shapes me into a girl with enough courage to still dare to be kind.

here, locked in my heart, old memories i once forgot. an open field, a bruised up boy with bruise-like eyes; the flesh would heal, but underneath, the fire died. . those days, they once were gone, all left behind like ones i've loved. a monster boy, who grew into a monster man; a broken toy whose life means nothing in the end. . you say i'm human too, but you see only what i let you see. i was born with masks i can't remove, not for you and not for me. . so here, locked in my heart, a box of things i take apart: . a futile dream to save the ones i lost to time, to wish instead their deaths were mine.