Depression & Other Magic Tricks Page 3

Forget your house

  mine

  your house

  & mine

  be burning

  how to fold a memory

  our brains remember the infliction

  of pain, be it physical, psychological, or emotional.

  we remember this hurt as a means to avoid it in the future.

  let’s start at the beginning.

  i remember the shape my hand held while in yours,

  like origami prayer, or flower petals returning home.

  i remember the rose petals falling from your fingers,

  leading from the doorway to the bedroom like a

  trail of breadcrumbs, or drops of blood.

  the scent of cinnamon, how you would sprinkle it into my coffee

  like fresh ground snowflakes.

  i can’t take cinnamon in my coffee

  without getting hungry for your laughter.

  i am hungry for your laughter, but my mouth tastes like the slow

  dissolve of the last i love you that refused to leave it.

  i remember the river. how we danced to the sound of it rushing.

  how you hummed Radiohead in harmony.

  that song haunts my house of cards. i wish it would collapse.

  i wish i could forget how i got here.

  how did i get here? i was carried in the teeth

  of your charm, or i walked.

  i marched. i was a turning cheek parade.

  i wasn’t paying attention to the highlighted route,

  or there was no map, i got lost.

  with every journey back into our past, it becomes harder

  to find our way there.

  our brains are constantly rerouting the paths, rewriting

  what we remember.

  let’s go to the end -

  it was by Little Sugar Creek, in the warm Kentucky breeze,

  we stood off unfolding in silence.

  in silence, it’s hard to tell what the other person

  is thinking without looking them in the eyes.

  you would not look me in the eyes.

  so, by Little Sugar Creek, i let the warm breeze reach

  you in place of my origami hands.

  ever since, i have been practicing forgetting.

  i’ve kissed the sky more times than i ever kissed you.

  i inhale purple haze in an attempt to smoke out the correlation

  between you & the scent of cinnamon.

  i drink as if i am trying to save the world from drowning.

  to get my memories so drunk,

  they might forget themselves by morning.

  but the trauma of daydreaming.

  the curse of muscle memory; my body keeps your secrets.

  how do i teach my mouth to shake out the reflection

  of your etch-a-sketch smile?

  my wrists, to forget the swoops and arcs of your name?

  my ears, to hear songs without the ghost of you inside of them?

  worse, i cannot tell in these spasms of remembering,

  if the past tense keeps slipping into my present,

  or if my present keeps slipping into the past.

  still, my body wears your fingerprints like a home address.

  i lose memories like baby teeth, but you

  are a stubborn molar refusing to leave.

  we cannot control what we remember,

  but we can control how we remember.

  i shake cinnamon into my coffee, & i don’t think of you.

  i write your name over & over, until it no longer has any meaning.

  i fold my memories of you, craft them paper wings,

  in hopes they might one day drift into amnesia,

  & you might leave me,

  without a trace.

  gravity speaks

  if i am holding you without hands,

  how am i supposed to let go?

  the other side of a memory

  we could have told you

  she wasn’t herself since the tenth grade

  sure, she still had a laugh like electricity

  still went to dance class

  put on mascara each morning for school

  but something was off

  something like how a light switch will still turn on

  a half burnt bulb

  it was hard to tell if she was a stubborn surge

  or a tired, dimming circuit

  then she started working weekends

  stopped making it for dinner on Sundays

  when she did she looked exhausted

  but she was always missing our calls

  telling us she had been asleep

  she had never been one to lie

  so we believed her

  we wanted to believe her when she said she was fine

  just fine / all right / okay / busy / good / okay / fine

  we thought she would have come to us

  if she was having any trouble we would have done anything

  to help

  all we’ve ever wanted was for her to be happy

  for my nineteenth birthday, my brother gifted me

  the board game hungry hungry hippos,

  he said it was so i could play with my friends.

  he was referring to the hippos.

  we did not understand why she would not stop crying

  even when we held her down to the couch begging her to

  on releasing light

  in some stories,

  the protagonist has to kill the bad thing to release its light.

  in my story,

  i am the protagonist & the bad thing,

  i have to learn how to bend the light out of myself.

  i can do that magic.

  magic trick 003

  the girl performs her first spell.

  during a fit of anger, she breaks

  her own heart in a parking lot at Disneyland as her father watches on.

  inside of her heart was a skipping stone,

  the heart pieces assemble into a tiny hummingbird that flies

  back into the girl’s chest,

  but it metabolizes her love so quickly,

  it is always moments away from starving to death.

  poem from last august california trip //

  yearly maintenance

  the notice taped to the door

  said:

  everything off the counters.

  so we took everything off.

  the coffee maker

  olive oil

  blame

  & take a look at all this grey speckled marble;

  so smooth,

  unlike our fitful conversations.

  a blender

  the cutting board

  don’t worry -

  the knives are kept in drawers:

  three sets of keys

  hers,

  & father’s,

  & mine are father’s too.

  two loaves of bread

  a box of tea

  step-mother drinks tea,

  & father drinks coffee,

  & i drink father’s coffee too.

  it’s all hot under the surface.

  a small watermelon

  father cuts me off mid-sentence,

  the toaster

  unplugged but still warm.

  once we’ve finished,

  father turns on the tv.

  he puts on something funny

  so we can laugh,

  & laugh,

  & forget

  we’ll have to put everything back tomorrow;

  where we keep it, where it all goes.

  i press shuffle & Lauryn Hill comes on…

  & all of a sudden

  i am standing in

  a June

  some twenty-six moons ago

  losing my bravery

  in the maze

  something about

  the walls

  being too white

  & how neither of us

  reach

&
nbsp; for the purple crayons

  scattered like dares

  in the dry grass

  we are silent

  the whole walk

  i’m thinking

  about why i didn’t do it

  we stay silent

  while moving smoothly

  through mundane interactions

  as if routine

  that night

  i did not ask

  & you did not tell

  but Lauryn Hill sang

  nothing even matters

  & we both

  sang along

  we both sang

  out loud

  nothing but you

  another plain truth

  we hugged.

  it was a good hug.

  if there is such a thing as a hug so good i did not wish it were a kiss.

  on the last gesture between us

  so / i guess you could say / it wasn’t that bad / & i might be inclined to believe you / except / i know things / that i can’t explain / that make me almost positive / a wave goodbye / on a full moon / means / let go / & go home / & so i went / quietly into the night / with my swallow / & the Uber driver was very nice / turned around & introduced himself to me / told me i looked like a jazz girl & tuned the radio stations until the syrupy leak of trumpet sweetened both of our lips into smiles / & then he said here you go & turned it up / & i was grateful for this stranger who understood me / who asked of me nothing /left as much empty space in that silver sedan as he could for the music / the medicine / i opened my mouth to say thank you / but the thick wail of saxophone slid down my throat / & again / quietly / i swallowed my cry / into song / my cry / an instrumental mourning / the words / the words they are always changing / a wave goodbye / is always a mocking lifeline / & i guess you could say / my dark purple lipstick distraction plan would have worked / if i hadn’t worn my reaction like too-thick black winged eyeliner that doesn’t suit my face / but it’s fine / because i look like a jazz girl / & right now / eyes closed & tears streaming & a little tipsy letsbehonest / i am a jazz girl / a girl of pulled taffy / a girl who will chew / a wave goodbye / for weeks / before spitting it out / onto a page / into a song / titled: i think i’ll prefer you a stranger someday.

  poem from the moment after you left

  for chimwemwe

  & the truth is

  i miss you already

  the truth is

  you’re still here

  in my heart

  the truth is

  we never truly know

  if or where we will be

  together again

  but i look forward

  with wide open arms

  to that next time

  when we find ourselves

  sharing the glow we keep

  instead of cavities in our teeth

  & joking about time

  how its passing

  is nothing more

  than a dream

  how we are

  never more

  than a short slumber

  away

  on platonic love being a real thing

  while drinking pear cider / on E’s rooftop / for K’s birthday / S asks / do you remember your first kiss / i laugh / yes / of course / it was during a game of spin the bottle / look / he is sitting across from us / at this table / right now / A senses our attention / looks at me / mid-bite of his hamburger / pulls it out of his mouth / & opens up / showing the product of his chewing / all three of us laugh / S says: i totally get it / i think about that game of spin the bottle / how A was the only boy to come to my grade seven birthday party / how we still played spin the bottle / & all kissed whoever it landed on / i think about how E was my prom date & the first girl i kissed with tongue / how that kiss was actually a secret pact to make me promise not to tell H that E was smoking / & that same night we slept over at H’s house / K & i shared a bed / & she took off her shirt / & bra / before she got in / so i did too / & it was no thing / that time S & i spent a night laughing naked / i think about each relationship sitting at the table / how we trust each other / with our whole bodies / how that’s love / now, isn’t that love?

  so my friend tells me she identifies as a mermaid…

  & i’m like, GIRL. i saw The Little Mermaid. even she did not want to be a mermaid. & yes, she may have been a selfish little fishtail, but think about it: “up where they walk, up where they run, up where they play all day in the sun.” i mean…don’t you currently enjoy doing all of those things? if you’re just trying to sing & brush your hair with a fork without judgment, you can totally do that. some people will throw you the side eye, disregard them as crabs. OR are you just trying to say you’re magic, BUT not that regular, pedestrian, witch-type magic. is mermaid magic better? is this common public knowledge? OR is it just easier to look at yourself in the mirror if you are not human. does that make it easier to pretend you don’t have depression; because depression is exclusively human. if so…shoot…maybe i am a mermaid too. if being a mermaid means you’ve cried enough tears to drown your grasp of reality. if being a mermaid means you truly believe the grass is greener than the blue you are surrounded by. if being a mermaid means you never walk away from a person you love, because you can’t, because you have a fin. then yes, i think i am definitely a mermaid. & every song i’ve ever sung has filled my lungs with sea, but i am not drowning - not like i thought i was, when i was human.

  avowal

  i drink my coffee black. you don’t like coffee. you like what it does to your body, you like the way coffee makes your body feel. so you take your cream & sugar with coffee, every morning. this is not about you. i like how looking at you makes me feel twice i asked to kiss you the second time, how you said i just don’t think i can give you what you want. i’m not sure why you kissed me back the first time. i suspect you liked what it did to your body, you liked the way my kiss made your body feel. once, there was a lump in my throat. i like to believe it was a metaphor. every feeling i have swallowed. a plain tumor is all it was.

  see how this is my story. i have woken up looked in the mirror & thought damn i look good today. you wear sweat shorts & i still want to fuck you. once. you gave me a bouquet of pink roses or was it a fury of your puckered lips? if i am late it is because i was too anxious to leave. i don’t know how to plan time. when your elbow found mine in that crowd after a year of our mouths not speaking i was not happy to see you i was relieved.

  cut to me blushing. laughing, of course. weren’t you dancing beside me? we were no full moon. once you said a person is either a peacekeeper or a pot stirrer. we both know which i am. i bet you think you’re a peacekeeper. in my poems you are the dream of you. maybe is an alternate universe. the falling stars are just glitter just thousands of tiny LED lights poured down from the sky that July was a fire that minded its own business the following June was just thirty days the moon was a strawberry it wasn’t the drugs the shadows on the ceiling weren’t dancing again.

  i was walking backwards when i met you. i made all of this magic. i bet you think magicians don’t exist. you are not the first boy who i wrote into existence, or loved. you are the first dizzy wind spell to trip my tornado. once, you smiled in my direction & balloon on the loose there i went so high i forgot which came first you or the dream of you. that thought unties my shoelaces.

  once, we were a crescent moon, weightless as a smile.

  you told me, once, after work you took the bus all the way west to watch the sunset, only to miss it. you said you were so glad you made it to me on time. i love you. still. i’m not sorry. i don’t want to write about you anymore. let’s see how long we can go without talking. this time, if we really try, maybe i will forget your birthday. maybe. if you came back, i would not ask why. i miss you, but i don’t wish you were here. you may say none of this ever happened. but some of the details sure fit.*

  *abracadabra

  on keeping your damn feelings to your damn self

  how do you do that?


  but also can you just stop.it.right.now.

  unrequited in nine acts

  the question hangs / a hook through my pink cheek:

  how did you do that thing that you did to my heart?

  -

  because isn’t the real tragedy

  how you found yourselves in one another,

  how you took one brief look into the mirror of her,

  turned around,

  & walked away?

  -

  the girl’s arms are empty.

  her fists are filled with the laughter of ghosts.

  watch their fitful ridicule each time she cries over love

  less real than they are.

  -

  there are baseballs / falling out of my mouth / each ball / the name of a body / i reached for in the dark / to find myself / a parade of honest names / slip / from the grip of my loose glove jaw / the love i want is a basketball / a heavy thumping / in the chest / when it is my turn to be called up to the plate / i do not swing / i do not swing

  -

  her name is wooden ship, to try & fit in

  into his glass bottle heart would only break her.

  -

  a montage of all the times i wished you had taken my hand

  & when the moment passed

  & you didn’t,

  a montage of all the places i wished myself far, far away to:

  Portland, Barcelona, places i have never seen your smile.

  -

  what is the name of a place that everyone can see is burning…but no one can feel the effects of the smoke…or the heat of the flames…except the place…& that place is not a place but a person…& that person is the i in my poems…only it’s my real life body that aches…& isn’t that love…not being able to see the explosion… because you are the one holding the bomb…& the bomb is also you

  -

  the girl’s hair turns to forget-me-nots and thyme.

  her bones soften to willow branches, her skin flakes maple leaves.

  her chest is now a cabinet of well-stacked cigar box caskets