Depression & Other Magic Tricks Read online

  carrying memories she is slow turning to ash. in lieu of conversation,

  she passes smoke.

  the girl collects seashells, upturns them into bowls, fills them

  with dried lavender & amethyst, in hopes

  of luring someone new.

  remembering is her favorite pastime.

  she cannot hold her heart up without trembling, so she hides it

  away in bottomless midnights, which are her grief, but are also her lust.

  the girl is now a girl who is also a whale; full of unoccupied space.

  it’s tragic how she displaces her emptiness with loneliness,

  how she wants & wants & wants & needs to know why.

  why the boy acts like he lives so far away from her

  when his house is just a couple blocks south of ten

  minutes & all that space lays still, loud as a snail’s cry.

  & wouldn’t i know about crawling up inside oneself

  wouldn’t i know about a body full of waiting

  a floor, clean as a plate in a cupboard, holding nine other plates

  on top of it

  how it’s all so unbearable

  holding love makes the girl feel helpless. she dislikes the period of

  heavy pockets, of change her heart is

  unwilling to make.

  -

  did you hear me?

  i said i love you.

  i said i still love you.

  still. you.

  dear Beyoncé (II)

  why is it all so heavy…i of course mean my heart…but can i call it a heart if it has the reluctant tenderness of a blackberry…i slouch toward the window…i sit in the dark until someone comes in the room & turns on the light…what does it mean that i imagine my heart is a stampede of trembling rabbits…& why do i prefer hands to eyes…the hunger for a warm pulse…what is more savage than that kind of loneliness…i have kissed love on the lips & it did not fill me with anything other than smoke…what if the place where i keep my love is a cave…cluttered with mumbling grief…what if my heart only prays in the church of a mouth…& how can you believe in yourself to tell the truth when a lover asks you what you are afraid of…the more i come to know about snakes the better i understand…i am terrified of myself…i leave my skin all over the place…i am always digesting my last meal…

  feed a fever, starve a cold

  to forget

  the artichoke heart

  buries itself in leaves

  to the source of the true hunger

  to look full

  to appear flush

  *

  my grandmother says

  heartache is

  a hungry caterpillar

  that must be fed

  so it can grow

  wings

  & fly away

  *

  the refusal of offered love

  is some kind of death

  *

  to forget

  the warmth of a smile

  when it was smiling

  at me

  i wear scarves

  & toques

  before

  the snow comes

  i call this

  being prepared

  i am just

  lonely

  *

  my heart

  believes

  his smile’s last words

  were a secret handshake

  i have not eaten dessert

  since

  *

  if the bag

  of carrot sticks

  is full

  i do not bother

  counting

  how many i eat

  there are never enough

  *

  when my friend

  tells me

  i seem

  smaller

  i joke

  i am

  too young

  to be

  shrinking

  when he says

  no sabrina,

  i mean

  skinnier

  & i tell him

  not on purpose

  i am not lying

  *

  i tell

  my grandmother

  i think love is

  a hungry caterpillar

  *

  i am no meal

  historically

  i have never been

  more

  than a midnight

  snack

  poem from the beach trip

  i ask why the birds are crying & learn that seabirds drink salt water & then cry out the salt through their tears & though i cannot say for sure i believe this to suggest the seabirds aren’t sad they are excellent at letting go cool i have woken up & cried for three mornings in a row each time felt as if there was a reason but i could not remember it i was hoping the seabirds might relate as i watch them fly my bones feel so heavy the tide is coming in & a bright moon crab digs bunkers into the sand to wait out the wave & the wave is endless & there are waves & waves & i am clutching my entire body tense as the moment you ask me what happened why am i crying again & the best answer i can give you is i can’t tell if the crab is still there

  girl behind you

  girl behind you / at the hardware store / carrying an item you’re sure i don’t know how to use by myself / & it mildly annoys me / that that’s not entirely untrue / my grandfather showed me how / but i will still YouTube a tutorial when i get home / anyway / i’m in line behind you at the grocery store / & i’m carrying the healthy variety of food that needs to be cooked for consumption & you are thinking to yourself / can this small girl really be buying these vegetables & spices for her household or is her mom waiting in the car / & it mildly excites me that i’m thinking i hope my boyfriend is taking a shower / i hope i get home somehow perfectly timed to his exit from the shower / & when i walk in the house / he walks out of the bathroom / & our eyes lock / our lips curl in canary smirks / & 5 minutes later / i am out of breath against the hallway / instead of evenly chopping cubes of sweet potato / but i’m in line behind you at Shoppers Drug Mart / or Walgreens / or wherever you go for toothpaste & condoms / & you are wondering why i am buying vitamins & not lipstick / you are wondering why my nails aren’t painted but i’m buying nail polish remover / you are making strange assumptions based on the unkept nature of my frizzy-ass hair / & this is why i have a hard time leaving the house / this is why i didn’t braid my hair or put it up into a ponytail / even though that would have made me more comfortable physically / i just knew it would make me appear even younger than i already do / & you’re thinking who cares / looking young is great / you’re gonna love that you look seventeen when you’re thirty / quit whining about a problem that’s not really a problem / & this is why i have a hard time talking about my anxieties / not the big heavy anxieties / but the small ones / the ones that change my earrings / & chip at my general level of self-esteem / the ones that gorge on celery & watermelon after a heavy weekend / crying quietly / standing in line / behind you / the girl you’re pretending not to notice

  what i told the doctor, the second time

  everything is in slow motion again.

  breath the pace of an afternoon walk against the wind.

  heart pulses like dormant volcano.

  oscillating head.

  my thoughts are spirographs;

  think intricate patterns of loops,

  think waves that never break.

  my feet are two bowling balls headed toward the same strike,

  but the lane

  keeps

  growing & growing.

  my eyes have formed a reckless search party.

  there is snow in the window but i see cotton balls on string.

  each moment hangs in the air around me

  a poem waiting to be plucked.

  if i bite my tongue my mouth bleeds shark bait.

  when i sit still my thoughts circle me

  when i want to be left alone

 
i go out into the world.

  in the center of me hangs a small bell,

  i don’t know how to ring it,

  but i’ve heard it ring.

  i can’t stop thinking about when it will ring next

  last Friday

  lately / my mind has been

  spinning the question / what

  if i am the sound the tree makes

  when it falls in the forest & no

  one is around / but i think it’s more

  likely that i am the no one / deaf to

  the libraries falling all around me /

  something like fifty-five million people

  die / this year / so many stars

  shot off into the darkness / & i’m trying

  not to entertain these thoughts / on

  the weekends / at least / tonight / my

  friends & i / we sit around wooden

  tables listening / to music made by musicians

  who will never play these songs again / &

  we only sing along to yesterday’s living / until

  the record stops / & no one gets up to turn it

  over / & someone shouts hey! did i already tell you

  that i saw a shooting star last night? / & we talk

  about how much we adore shooting stars / we

  recall the coordinates of the last time

  we each have seen one / like they are

  some kind of collection of all our lost earrings /

  elegant glistening we will never witness in the

  light again / & before the conversation spins out /

  i get up & flip the vinyl / my step-father

  gave to me / so i wouldn’t have to inherit it /

  someday / & i am grateful for that.

  seven small ways in which i love d myself this week

  i flossed.

  *

  while picking up fruit

  & vegetables

  at the market,

  i

  spontaneously

  bought myself

  flowers.

  *

  i practiced saying i love you

  in the mirror.

  not i love you because,

  or,

  i love you despite,

  just:

  i love you.

  *

  it rained,

  i went for a walk &

  did not bring

  an umbrella.

  & while my wet hair

  reached for the ground

  i kept my chin up,

  i kept my eyes open.

  *

  i indulged in a donut

  for breakfast

  & did not step on a scale

  afterward.

  *

  i held hands

  with my sadness,

  sang it songs in the shower,

  fed it lunch,

  got it drunk

  & put it to bed early.

  *

  i did not think

  of him.

  not even once.

  ode to sunday

  dreams of kissing,

  croissants come true.

  this morning

  sun, a full joy.

  morning glories brave sprout through wood steps.

  today slowly finds its balance

  and it is here,

  in the unsteady,

  i find myself

  for a moment

  writing love letters

  and lazy praise

  to the calm wide open

  you clean break / you swift waltz of untangling knots

  you cathedral of roses / stop pinching your thorns

  you damp wood / miracle / you / crackling campfire

  you nervous firework

  welcome yourself / back into yourself

  you are a playground for dancing ghosts

  you are unassuming music

  you are dripping faucet / easy tears / winding river

  you maple syrup tongue

  how do you even talk about anything other than how sweet you are

  you with your carousel of questions

  you playground for dreams / & new dreams

  you moon sugar / you honey cruller lullaby

  look at you / sitting in the dark / unfolding

  you nesting doll / you kind depth / you terrified bloom

  look at all of this digging

  look how you have chipped away at your nail polish / both hands

  thought you had a garden / but it is a graveyard

  so what / if you carry it / under your tongue

  magic trick 004

  the girl transforms nerves into charm.

  “it was a please to meet you.”

  “a pretty please,” she responds.

  it starts

  with a spark that makes static electricity look like longing.

  i am spellbound by the smoke billowing from his Belmont cigarette.

  like i am staring at his Belmont cigarette sat

  snug between his lips like i wish my name

  would. he is so cool. he is like the king of ice cream sandwiches.

  like i wish my tongue was a drawbridge to his castle.

  his heart is a stubborn pistachio. like i want to crack it open.

  i want to play his heartstrings like a harp,

  or rip out his heartstrings & like braid them into a bracelet.

  like decorate me. i want to wear him.

  since i met you baby

  a Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears erasure

  I

  tell

  everybody

  the doctor

  is you

  seconds after bumping into him on the street

  there it is,

  the bite of nostalgia bleeding.

  how painful.

  how painfully quick.

  on getting over you for real

  i recognized you by your shadow the spill of light from your

  outline here is a love poem more important than the words i

  never said how could i try to make you feel greener than my

  side of the story this time i would tell you the deep

  truth which is to say i would take you back into that maze just

  to kiss you when you were most confused where i could have

  been the one to make it clear love can live anywhere as

  long as you acknowledge it Whitney Houston forced me to

  acknowledge it in a dream long after she had died & there are

  ghosts in every version of this story dreams that tell like fortunes

  & cookies that seem to have fell from the sky something

  like a song link via text message only there is no mystery

  there except why & little would that matter now in

  the terminal of an airport i am only passing through

  an aesthetic of clean white tiles & it reminds me of that maze & it helps

  me to understand it’s not that i was afraid to write the words

  on the wall it was the shadows they would paint upon our clean

  blank friendship & again i think what has not been can never

  be lost too tempting a romance a beautiful ice sculpture swan but

  how many times has my heart melted & aren’t you so tired of the

  chipping away from loneliness’ sharp edge each winter & there

  are too many perfect metaphors for the indie movie i’ll keep

  on dreaming of writing i would write us wonderful & calm

  though i know i wasn’t i was anxious & nervous & horribly

  enthusiastic while far too involved in every moment & you were

  casual you were unaware & who cares i am in the sky

  now a shadow proving itself to be true a star a manifestation of

  the words that describe the feelings i have moving far inside of

  me & that is how i know it was real

  i walked right into it into its neon center &
r />   back out with too many muscles clutching memories of dancing

  i bet your best memory of me gets no more attention than a smile

  in your sleep & so it goes i don’t care i am just happy to

  know you still smile happy to know i’ll see you around

  magic trick 005

  the girl lassos a shooting star.

  she dissects its gooey center and finds a skipping stone

  the girl sits down in a field of grass & stares at the stone for three years

  until on the last day of one November it finally snows

  & her mother calls her inside

  & to hide it safe the girl swallows the stone

  & it skips

  on & on

  inside her & further away

  on & on…

  follow-up a prayer / a spell

  i am feeling better

  so i say / good morning / & mean it

  yes / today / is a good morning

  to exhale / to feel joy

  with the release of breath

  i no longer need to be holding

  i am not alone

  because i feel alone

  i am not alone because i feel alone

  i am not alone because i feel alone / with company

  when i look in the mirror i will find a reflection

  of the gifts i am withholding from myself

  light hits / everything at a different angle

  i make a habit of tilting / my head

  when the sadness waterfalls

  i will let the salt cleanse the wounds i cannot see

  i will let dance parties be the hospitals i heal in

  if i need more help i will let the people offering help me

  if i need more help i will let the medication help me

  i forgive my body for being a machine after all

  i forgive my memory for being

  the cupboard door

  that will continue to pop ajar

  no matter how many times i push it shut

  i forgive myself even if i am the last person i want to forgive

  whatever i have come from / wherever i am going

  i will remember the present as the place to start

  today is a good day / to wake up / & be great

  & have gratitude / for the relentless