sixteen. - the definition of escape.
1. i’m going to leave you holding my memory like you held my dress that first time i asked you to take it off of me. i’m going out the fire escape with a broken suitcase, leaving a trail of clothes that you won’t follow because you haven’t forgiven me yet, or you have but it’s complicated.
2. i need a bigger space now. you need me gone. our apartment seemed to shrink to nothing as all those words we kept bottled up leaked out too late, spilling onto the floor, shattering against the walls and staining the hardwood.
3. one day i’m going to be that face, that name that flickers at the back of your head that you reach for but can never quite touch. you won’t be able to select me out of a lineup, much less a crowd. and one day, i’ll say the same about you.
fifteen. - what a mess i can be.
this is me,
curled up, cold, and crying.
(i have been here before.)
not here, in this bed.
other places, other beds or floors.
(a bathroom floor, after the wedding;
my living room floor, after her party;
the old apartment, before class.)
i have someone
to save me from myself).
wishing for something different.
for someone to be here.
for someone to call.
for my heart to change, to calm.
i have aches deep in my bones tonight
that i can chase away with pills
and i can sink away into sleep and settle
and not worry tomorrow
but tonight i am distracted by the thought that it is so easy to
back into this place (in my head)
in another place
(tomorrow or the next day)
(in the bedroom bathroom breakroom)
curled up, cold, and crying.
fourteen. - cuts and fumes.
i am tangled barbed wire today.
poison in the apple before she bites into it.
gasoline the second before a lit match hits it.
thirteen. - identity.
on the day i leave you, i’ve already lost you.
i will cut my hair, i will not make myself a noose
for the person you only thought i was.
twelve. - warmth.
when i wrap yarn around your fingers,
i’m not trying to tie you down.
i find something comforting about
looped threads, sweaters in winter,
a scarf around your neck.
so come here, baby.
when i wrap myself around you,
i hope i can always keep you warm.
day eleven. - wine and bones.
the dead girl had been named
for her dead grandmother
whom she had never met but
was informed that she had been
“a very nice woman”.
the dead girl was buried in a vineyard,
quietly, so no one knew about her grave.
her body grew into grapes and
the grapes were pressed into wine.
later, a girl who drank the wine,
who was too young to drink wine,
broke her glass moments after the first sip.
the glass shattered like a scream no one heard.
the stains the wine left on the white walls of her house looked like flowers,
but it was winter at that time. everything outside was frozen.
the girl locked herself into her room,
downed the rest of the bottle all by herself.
that night she dreamt that she turned into a tree,
skin sprouting thorns and leaves,
arms turning into branches bearing heavy fruit
that fell to the earth and rotted,
feet growing into roots pushing down through the soil,
through a skeleton of a dead girl,
who had once been a girl just like her,
but with a different name, a different face,
a different past and no future.
the dead girl whispered to her from the soil,
“if we stay here long enough,
our bones will turn into diamonds.”