Poems

Remember when people thought we were twins? Our teachers, the crossing guard, the other kids, the candy store cashier, maybe even us. I've never broken anything I really cared about before. Today I woke up with half of my face peeled off. No, well over half. My right arm is gone, my toes were snipped off, my teeth were pulled out and replanted somewhere in the lining of my stomach, gnashing and clacking all night. I think the worst part is you've just gone quiet, almost like you climbed up past the clouds on a ladder that I can't keep a grip on with my sweaty hands. You never liked my fingernails. Always dirt under them. You never liked my breath. Morning breath. You never liked it when I scratched my nose. Looks like I'm picking it. You never liked my voice. High, loud, a grating laugh. You never liked my stories. I tell them a lot. You never liked my hair. It's greasy. You never liked my interests. They're pretty lame, I agree. You never liked my pets. I have too many these days. You never liked my opinions. Usually misinformed. You never liked my eating habits. I barely eat once a day. You never liked my house. Dusty. You never liked my family. My mother is an asshole. You never liked my apartment. Messy. You never liked my ideas. Stupid and impossible. When did you start not liking me? It can't be that long. After highschool? During highschool? College? After that? Before that? A few months? Last week? Years? Honestly, I can tell why. It must have been when I started getting pathetic and whiny and gross and tired and depressed and then psychotic and then worse and then last time that I was in the hospital you didn't even come to visit. You didn't come to see me. It was alright. I get it. You're busy. I'm not who I used to be. I'm not much of a friend anymore. I get it. It makes sense. I got distant as well. I only ever called you to complain about some strange dark feeling nestled under my rib cage, pressing against my stomach. Of course you didn't come to visit. It makes sense. It makes sense. I get it. You're busy. You're living a life. Will it be a life without me, soon? Will you wake up and find out that your face is still there, your right arm and toes are still firmly attached, and your teeth are strong and rooted deep in your gums? You've gone silent, and I think it's because you don't need to be loud anymore just to be heard over my constant whining. I've never broken anything I actually cared about before. I feel like you still haven't.

Isn't it so stupid that I don't even remember falling in love with you, I just remember waking up sweating god, it was a long night, and I saw the rhythmic flashing of my phone's little internal star, a satellite transmission from a million miles away, from you, another million miles away, saying "Good morning babe! Off to work, hope you slept well!" And fuck, if I didn't cry for an hour and a half after that, because I'd never felt so horrified at the prospect of sending a text that read "I dreamt that I let go of your hand and wandered into the fog blanketing the path up ahead." Read 11:04 AM

It said, "Hello! Hello! Hello little one!" She looked at it oddly, then crossed her legs. "Hello, starling." The starling flapped its single unbroken wing. "Hello! Hello! Why can't I fly?" "You're all torn up, Mr. Starling. You look frightful." "What do you mean? Hello? Hello?" The girl did not know what to say. "You're dead, Mr. Starling." And the bird began to scream. It screamed and shrieked and screeched at her. "Why am I dead? Why am I dead? Why did you kill me? Why did you kill me?" The little girl ran away, with the starling's screams following her into the house.

I did it the first time just to see what it was like. I think I just wanted to see blood. The second time I did it, I was excited, I was holding my breath back, afraid that the movement of my lungs would distract me from the sensation. The tenth time I did it, I knew that I would never stop. I liked the shuddering of my own flesh as it tried to come to term with what I was doing to it and maybe even why. The fiftieth time I did it, I nearly moaned, and I jumped into the shower just to see it waterfall down my legs, just to see it weave, so I could pretend there was more blood. The hundredth time I did it, I was crying. The pain released endorphins and eventually the crying stopped. I thought, 'wow, what a helpful tool'. The five hundredth time I did it, I bared my teeth, and drove as deep as I could. I was obsessed, I was high, I had to see more. I had to see more. The last time I did it, I waited ten minutes, then prayed to God that someone would find me. My mother heard me sobbing, (begging not to die, but to be reborn) and she ran up the stairs and screamed and screamed. The last time I did it, I spent a thousand years hooked up to that machine, a thousand years in that ward, a thousand years searching for friends and honestly, finding only my cat. The last time I did it, I took all the box cutters, stuffed them into the back of my drawer, and said, "I think I'll wait a little while before I use these again."

I would tell you what I am going to do tonight but the news will tell you for me.

I died three years ago laying in bed, eyes under dry cloth, cotton, old linen used for wrapping bodies. Summer, like a cloud of smog pressing into the heart of this house choking it, bringing it to rest in a veil of spider webs and grainy colours. I died on August 22nd, 2011, 2:59 pm, halfway through a breath and a pretty thought. Mouth dried up with a clenching of teeth, brittle, with dust too much god, too much I know it now, I can pinpoint it, smell it out, like a bloodhound, the scene of my crime, blood rising out of my body, god, too much. Never noticed, really, it's hard organs made of starch and really old flour Walking like furniture, scratched up, so dry I see it now, riding the wave of my heel, gasping, the air cold on my skin but my body is so heated, my mouth so dry, barely believing what I couldn't believe three years ago. See, I knew you'd figure it out eventually.

To delete this message, press 7. To replay, press 9. I press 9. I press 9. I press 9. I press 9. I press 9. I press 7.

It is frustrating, terrifying, confusing - but most of all, it hurts. You wish she could read your mind, then again, maybe not, because god knows what might happen if she knew. So you find mid-ground. You drop hints like fat raindrops, waiting to see if they saturate her smile, if they create a knowing glint in her eyes. You pray, even though you stopped believing a long time ago. It hurts. She forgets her shirt at your house after a sleepover. You pretend you don't know anything about it, at least for a few days. It feels excruciatingly soft in your hands. Does it feel this soft when it's on her? Did it feel this soft when she wore it at the sleepover, when you laid side-by-side on the bed, comic book held aloft, laughing at awful pornographic scenes? Did she notice how badly you wanted to press closer? You only want to spend time with her. Nineteen years, 228 months, 166440 hours. It will never be enough. But it has to be. You worry every day that she will start replacing you. Maybe she already is. You cry before the thought even fully develops. You worry every day that you might drift apart. You don't talk as often anymore. You don't live around the corner from her anymore. She doesn't remember all the names of your pets anymore. She doesn't share every single page of her sketch book with you anymore. But she still laughs when she sees your new hair cut, then tells you it's not that bad. She still demands that you sit in the same chair when you watch a movie together at home, squashed up tight by your side. Eventually she'll end up on your lap. She still rests her head on your shoulder. She still tells you every detail of her day, even if it's only when you ask. She still steals your food. She still laughs at those stupid inside jokes you made when you were ten, twelve, sixteen, eighteen, last week. She still runs her fingers through your hair when you're tired. She still looks at you when she's mad, and then her face softens, and you know it's going to be alright. You think about how when you were young and would always offer a piece of gum to make up for the fight. She still calls you her best friend. Maybe it's enough.