Tag Archives: depression

Irrational Being

she wakes to lavender
pooling in all her fleshy,
sorry nooks.

she had the dream
of all dreams last night:

staring through a dirty wine glass
like a drunken fortune teller
she saw life as it could be
by the softening glow of
holiday lights in city summer.

somewhere far from here
for the first time
she was good enough.

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My neck’s grown tired of always
holding up all the darkness in my head
but I am accustomed to backstroking
against this current; the absentminded
muscles I’ve developed tell me so.

Once I was a baby,
once I didn’t know the ache of unhappiness
but only the forgettable way my small mouth
formed words no one understood.

When I turned into a woman
my heart went all soot and damp earth.
People made it so. The ones I chose to love in fact.
Each unhinged my ribcage and stuffed it with warm deceit.

I’m a modern day Medusa
stuck staring at unwell-adjusted me,
busy chiseling the corners of my mouth
into the slightest of smiles.


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When We Are Here


Somewhere, ages ago now
I was setting sail on bones and ash,
catching the wind with an old t-shirt,
watching you and everything I knew
turn doll-size in the distance.

Miles had spread at a viral rate
by the time I went overboard and you


were already there to buoy me back to shore,
to refill my chest with all the reasons there were to stay
and when I opened my eyes all I noticed was the
brilliant orange of the sun as it left us.

So I’ve been using all your edges to keep me upright
but you’ve never seemed to mind (you’re too busy
seeing me in some post-apocalyptic calm, something
I cannot), you who chooses over and over to
stand out in the rain with me.

It’s all so surreal now, way back behind us,
and it feels like someone else’s temporary sorrow
when we are here, cradling the shiny newness of a
living, breathing thing that has your mouth, my chin, your nose.

It is almost impossible to think how simple
a decision it was, to look into your eyes, nod, press my mouth,
my body to yours and suddenly we were changed.

I think I’ll spend forever thanking you.


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interior decorating



matters of the heart

are barely

smoked up rooms

where you lay down your bones

when you’re feeling




I sport wallpaper skin

you nail photographs

to my chest



around our shortcomings


I’ve never been one for interpretive dance –


all elbows, you are

whole body, I am


so now


I steer my grief

so much like a ship’s sails

around your ambiguity

that is haunting me


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buying time






only looks


from a




come down

and see

she is



between all

of the



she is aging



they are

taking some-


you cannot


behind her





gave up

her two


teeth are

in her

coin purse






there is

a way




with your





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tell me what is

I used to make these


scrawled onto scrap

paper written desperately

with ink in a

child’s old journal sometimes

even on my hands, my arms,

those problematic thighs

beneath the school desk

of nothing inspirational

no to-dos or groceries,

just this:

teeth not white enough

laughter not bright enough

too thick, too sensitive

too irrational

too much of nothing.


eventually I burned all the

stationery I stopped

reminding myself of

silly human imperfections

even stopped looking in

the mirror for a while

because if I couldn’t

love me at least I

could forget what it

was I longed to

change, and I have

since glimpsed my

reflection in those

who’ve tried to

tell me what is

good and every time

I stay a little longer,

look a little deeper,

maybe even understand.


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I am stuck standing in the

mud of a time where words got

knotted together because there was no

lack of voices in our home, just the constant

knocking of chatter against the windows and the

walls of weather, what’s-for-dinner

but all of it was like the tiniest of earthquakes in

my chest, that old reliable constant

loud or barely heard it was there,

the warmest grip on my bones in the

bluish hue of the television


but now


I am knocking on the walls and

holding my breath to hear if my

memories come pounding back, and setting a

table for a solitary two is only romantic

sometimes because there is a catch,

when you are exchanging

expired stories over breakfast eventually

they all run out and the silence comes,

that deafening reminder to turn up

the heat, turn up the radio, anything to

take the edge off

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you watch me fading

sweetly from the

cliff side of our bed like

I always do when the rain

knocks gently on our door

and washes my bones so that I

can fold as small as every

love note you leave on my pillow,

praying words will be enough

to lift me from my grave,

water my hollow insides,

maybe glance outside and catch

my sunken face in the window


but I am spending ages trying

to remember how your mouth

feels as I am struggling

to open mine long enough to

wet my tongue and remind you

that even from here I have the best

view of just how lovely you are


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the worst of it


you watched me

on the big screen

shattering like a

tea pot and screaming

the worst of it

into a void that’s been

empty for years


you kept my

hands warm

through the worst of it

you let me see

all the shapes

in the clouds

and still kissed me after


and when I am

a woman again

you lay hands on

my hips like

a beautiful heirloom

every flaw is

some wonderful memory


my heart continually breaks

at every god


familiar seam

and you are waiting

every single time

you are waiting for me


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I am still in our bed

I am still counting

your footsteps that faded hours ago

and where you placed

your fingers on me

is still burning like it’s

known death too soon.


Ages ago we were

somewhere in moonlight

decoding one another

and your spine was the most beautiful braille

so I’d close my eyes

inhale your literature

and sing out all your best stories.


I was never aware

that I was becoming illiterate

instead I woke

to the same old sunlight

and suddenly the tides of your breath

were leaving me

empty as the words that had stopped forming.


There is no you

on my lips anymore

just some old story

that has hardened on my tongue

and I am desperate to forget

it was seven


seven footsteps that carried you away from me.


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