search for the pieces and duct tape the galaxy back together

recovery isn't linear,
so cut out the knot inside my chest
and hand me another rope.

sit with me as i open my ribcage
(ignore the slowing of my heart).
exposure is trust, exposure is truth;
i'm sorry for the static in my soul.

tie the rope and ignore the notches
engraved into my bones by repetition.
if it knots, it's not your fault.

swing the doors to my rib shut
and please
stay with me while i cry

a dilapidated farm house in the middle of ohio
with a gray summer storm looming overheard
surrounded by the vast expanse of cornfields.
we're restricted and free in the same breath.

if i give you a bottle cap, then will you hold my hand?
can i keep you around until we count the weeds growing?

i'll sit with you on the creaking porch swing
(ignore the rusty chains and the damp wood)
and i'll braid your hair as i once did mine.
because the past doesn't dictate the future,
nor does it erase how much you mean to me.

the foundation is strong, despite your misgivings;
although the floor plans were lost on the path here,
i wouldn't have taken another route for anything.
but i wish i could give you peace of mind,
but i'll offer up my company and my time.

we can press our heads against the floorboards,
and hear our history through the wood.

and through this summer storm, i promise i'll be there.

simulated life
surrounded by vast gray skies
existence loading

i wonder if you could pick out
the raw cotton in my brain
with silver tweezers on a Sunday night,
and together we could process the
baggage that i carry with me
and scour through the memories.

if we lay down on this water bed,
(despite it having gone cold,
our backs aching)
maybe i could open up my skull
reveal the obstructions inside.
static mixed together with a fiberous
blockade of thoughts and scenes.

i'm sorry for this heaviness, and
forgive me for the intrusive material.
since i'm a mess comprised of self-
inflicted trauma.

i cut my silver teeth on expectations of greatness,
falling back from golden stars with the small of my back
hitting the highest cliff with rocks crumbling below.
the copper blood that fills my mouth is no match for
the ground that gives way beneath me, sending me
to the depths of gray despair in the sticky July heat.

shine all you want, darlin'.

my mother brought me candied dice on the 75th day of june
when the sweltering ohio heat beat down on my back and i sobbed.
the zinc and plastic polymer crunched in my broken jaw
as i looked up at her smiling face, wondering if i was right this time.

i was conceived on a 1
was born on a 10
and surviving to toddlerhood required multiple 20s

my father used to hand me dice the size of my toddler fists,
and they never rolled quite right after that. 2s, 4s, 5s, and 8s.

my parents were never great at perception checks, but it was enough
to keep me from dying. trauma aside, the metal dice in my hands weigh
down on my conscious like lies and guilt.

like candy, i plop them in my mouth one by one
until i land a 0

i floated on cotton candy clouds back in '09,
back when my mind was quiet and cavities were a dream;
because the pastel sugar hugging to my skin was a sign of
good things to come, instead of a sticky foreshadowing.

my fall back down to earth wasn't a gracious one, but necessary;
i brushed brown sugar off my sundress and faced the world with a resolve
only a princess would have, head up and shoulders back with a
smile that could melt caramel hearts, change minds, and kill.

my kingdom knows no difference between prince and princess,
just functionless and functional, and how i stare at the clouds at night;
for the chocolate underneath my feet will give way if i stand too long,
swallowing me whole into its sugary cocoon, to remind me of days past.

you lived and died on these docks,
but i was never one for eulogies.
i wanted to kiss your salt-encrusted lips,
but the coroner took you away before
i had the chance to tell you 'i'm sorry'.

the crashing hurricane wasn't my fault,
but i had predicted the storm and tugged
at your hand before you left that morning;
maybe if i had run my fingers through that
windswept hair then you would be by my side.

my mother told me not to romance a sailor,
but i fell into your warm embrace and dined
with you by the seaside at midnight on thursdays.
we drank red wine and you kissed my forehead,
promising to be my hero through the storm.

but my sailor boy isn't coming home.

this metronome isn't enough to save a planet of 7.4 billion people.
its steady rhythm barely supporting my aching palms as i crash down
on her chest, waiting for life to return to her lungs on her own accord.
and another one bites the dust as i ignore 15 other bodies littered
on the floor of this galactic cafe on a saturday afternoon in chicago.
my trained capabilities rely on EMTs not responding to my cracked cries,
as i crack her ribs beneath my 120lbs of desperate force and fear.

the angel of death has never been my friend, but i never thought
she'd meet me here in the midst of all this chaos with her scythe drawn.
we were going to meet up at the crossroads once i sold my soul,
but she steals from 15 others and leaves me to deal with the chaos.
i come for all and no one, she whispers in my ears as the cycle
continues in my brain with the 5th rotation ending and i'm left with
no one to help. my body gives out beneath me--

mercy, i sob. take me instead, i scream to the abyss facing me.
for a deal with death is as breakable as my ribs.