paroxysm

Written April 3rd, 2019.

--

We're downtown. It's 70 and breezy, my favorite type of weather. I'm wearing cutoff jean shorts like a cliche and carrying my flip flops, bare feet on the searing sidewalk. You're walking behind me laughing as I tip toe down the bike trail, trying not to step on any beer glass. My iridescent fanny pack bounces slightly when I move, just above my hip. It reminds you of the county fair.

We're back at your place. Hardwood floors in the summer are best. My red soles soothed instantly. The sun has made me tired - I grab the black, heavy-duty case from underneath the couch. 'My collection', you call it. I sloppily roll a joint, getting pieces everywhere.

"Be careful, babe", you shout from the bottom step. You're nervous I'll get weed all over the floor, but I just smirk and continue my routine. I light it and walk out to the back patio, sashaying by you almost ghostly. The hem on my worn-in Old Navy tee lays comfortably above my exposed thigh - my largest tattoos on display for the forest creatures. I tuck my hair behind my ear and take a hit. My gaze goes to the tree top as I exhale, smoke filling in the spaces between branches.

Twilight. You come up behind me holding two copper mugs filled with vodka and lemonade. I take my cup and press it against my cheek, closing my eyes as the cooling feeling seeps into my skin. The mosquitos start to bite, and I start getting pissed. Your chuckle makes me grimace, and I pretend to be upset so you'll follow me inside. I put out the joint and run upstairs. I hear your heavy footsteps right as I reach the bedroom - I lay back on the bed and laugh.

Never let this go. Please don't let this go.

Written February 25th, 2019.

--

Megan

Written February 25th, 2019.

--

Megan

Written February 22nd, 2019.

--

Megan

Written February 11th, 2019.

--

i think i would prefer an office setting, something smaller and more kitsch.

like tweed suit coats and pinstripe dress pants,

and sneaking hits off of a skinny joint behind the dumpster.

Written September 12th, 2018.

--

Shopko at 8 p.m. on a Wednesday in winter.

buying Nike wind pants

and fighting about why we weren't at a movie

the pharmacy lights are off and the line is long

the air in my car is freezing

you're wearing your Merona peacoat

with the missing button.

we drive to your house

we don't touch

i stay in bed while you drive my Grand Am to work

6:30 a.m.

to stock shelves.

Written August 26th, 2018.

--

The first succulent I bought died after a day and a half. My therapist says to return it. My mind goes to, 'aren't we here for my problems and not yours?', but I stop myself. I'm trying to turn a new leaf, even though the underside looks moldy with blueish-grey decay. If I can't handle a succulent, a plant that's meant to be in bright sun, how can I take care of myself?

Everyone says to think in the now, think only of this moment. But this moment fucking sucks and I don't want it in my head anymore. Do people have any common sense? I'm sad, I'm anxious, I can't stop thinking about the thing that happened two Tuesday's ago at work at exactly 3:35 p.m. I need meds for this shit. So please, stop saying what you're currently saying.

My therapist, Jan, stares at me with doe-eyes. "Well, I can certainly understand why you're upset," she says. I close my eyes and roll them (but the leaf...), the eyelids popping out like grapes. I feel as if she's comparing her stories to hers/her daughter's every time I open my mouth. I'm tired of talking, and I'd like to leave. I make up some lie about how I'm going to write down my life goals before next week, and check out with Carol the front desk. Carol. Your name reminds me of casserole and the Mary Kay lipstick on your teeth tells me I'm right. And of course don't let me go without telling me my co-pay.

I leave the office and head home to nap for approximately 30 minutes. Waking up groggy, my limp, naked body carries itself into the shower. Brush my teeth - brushing my teeth for an interview at a dental office, how clever. Hitting every pot hole on the way, I think to myself that I totally have this locked down, I'm going to nail these assessments and get a new job all in one day. What a silly little flower. Word, Excel, a typing test. The HR woman sits down next to me and reads over my test scores like she hasn't already looked. Word - pass, typing test - super pass, Excel...missed it by one point. If you don't 100% pass all three, you've been successfully fucked by life. She awkwardly reports that since I didn't pass all three, I can't continue with the interview process. She shows me the door. Literally, gets up and shows me the exit. I can imagine the look on my face - bitch, I'm 29, I know how to use Excel.

I shake my head and chuckle to my depressed little self as I look up at the sun and mourn my succulent; I say out loud to an empty parking lot: I would never say that to someone's face.

Written August 18th, 2018.

--

take this vase

and break it.

twangy indie instrumental music

played by bros

in western-themed t-shirts

and American Eagle denim.

high wore off, i'm crazy again.

can't get out of bed.

i think about

my pink plastic rain coat

my cupcake bike

turtle swimming pool

polka dots

licking deodorant off the window screen.

whiney.

sleeping cat.

don't.

please do.

i want to hear your voice again.

Written June 29th, 2018.

--

don't run from me.

i am your savior,

your devil in disguise.

i'll take you higher

than you've ever been,

and just as quickly

slam you down,

below the earth,

to my kingdom.

i'll make you feel

like Romeo, meeting

his Juliet for the first time,

then turn around

and give you Medusa eyes.

you'll stand still as stone

until I'm done with you,

and Hades makes you his bitch.

i'll pretend to rescue you,

but like Orpheus' mistake,

i'll look back at you on purpose,

so you fall,

back down to Hades

to suffer for eternity.

Written February 27th, 2018.

--

i am crazy:

creature

running

amuck,

zealous,

(un)yielding.

nothing stops me once i start,

don't tell me to calm down,

don't tell me it'll pass

let me be rock back and forth for a few,

throw some tears back;

sit back and watch the show.

grab the Zoloft,

chase it with a Xanax,

breathe (don't tell me to breathe).

my chest is pounding,

mind in overdrive - how does it get to these places?

what neurons bring on the thoughts? how are they timed?

don't touch me,

but try to touch me,

so i know you mean it.

what do you mean?

what did you mean

when you said that?

(don't worry, i'll just obsess about it for a few hours.)

reassure me,

but don't coddle me.

help me,

but let me do it on my own.

what do i want?

how do i want it?

it's not going how i expected

meaning it's going downhill.

don't talk about it,

or something bad will happen.

superstitious catastrophic express my emotions.

are they too much? not enough?

ignore the ball of darkness sitting in my gut

or embrace it?

let it out or keep it chained, Lucifer in his cage?

how much emotion do i multiply by x to get a, y and c?

what magical equation will get me to a good place?

a stable place?

what is stable?

who decides what is sane and what is not?

who decides?! what machine?

why did evolution pick me to be weak

and brittle and bitter?

--

once the meds kick in,

i stop and think,

maybe i'm the clever one.

maybe i've figured it out:

the right concotion

to make me just the right amount

of crazy.

Written February 8th, 2018.

--

if you don't stop i'm going to scream.

the desert that is my mouth

is dry and arid, words like tumbleweeds

fall out of it, blowing into the wind.

your hands are big and smooth,

caressing my lotioned skin

and whispering into my ear,

a mosquito buzzing around it.

i'm the sexiest thing you've ever seen,

my ass is glorious,

and my tits are perky as fuck.

these things you say to me

like they mean something,

like i should cherish them

and keep them in my Little Mermaid

trinket box to take them out and play

every now and then.

i don't want to have sex, but i let you anyway.

i'm too annoyed to make up an excuse

that will satisfy you.

you push and pull and rub and pet

until i'm wet enough to shove it in.

i make Christy Mack moans

and writhe like a worm on a hook.

afterward, you make me promises

i know you'll never keep,

and tell me i'm pushing you too hard,

when i tell you to i want you to leave her.

your pious attitude makes me grimace,

and i speak as Ophelia - act one, scene three, page two.

your curfew draws near,

your carriage about to turn back into a pumpkin.

you kiss me goodbye,

and i silently swear that this time

is the last time

you will see me again.

Written January 26th, 2018.

--

the rich soil of my insides

make flowers protrude out of my sternum.

i offer them to you;

you pick them

one by one until

broken stems and bloody petals

are all that's left.

i'm lying on the floor

with cracked ribs

from too much blooming and picking.

i pull them further apart,

trying to release the pain,

but the cycle continues

until there's nothing left for me to give.

the extra exposure

spoils my soil

and i shrivel up like rotting fruit.

Megan

Written January 5th, 2018.

--

meet me at the museum,

in front of the Seurat.

second level, through the towering glass doors.

silently take hold of my hand,

gently, as if it were a lemon,

bruised and faded from too much damage.

watch the tears fall,

soldiers in a losing battle.

my willpower only lasts so long.

slowly I turn to lock eyes,

as lovers do,

but you're gone.

you've disappeared

to the Island of La Grande Jatte;

leaving me stranded, alone,

on this cold, hard bench,

properties that match the make up of my heart.

Megan

Written December 29th, 2017.

--

the night air from the open window

makes my nipples hard

as I lay down onto your king size bed.

you're in the shower;

my heart is toying with the idea

of joining you,

but my mind reminds me my presence

is not wanted.

i present myself to you,

a new broach begging to be worn,

fondled by each finger,

and pinned boastfully on your chest

for the world to see.

instead

you keep me tucked away

like a pocket square,

sitting pretty on your suit,

staring out into the abyss and

silently screaming to be noticed.

the sex is like oil;

it spreads, thick and black,

over your insides

enveloping your heart until it loses air,

seeping into your subservient cerebrum

and dances to the beat of

the lies we tell each other,

dissipating after each encounter

restoring me to my original state

of wishful thinking,

and you to yours,

of disgust and disrespect.

Megan