in the ocean of it all

12. popcorn ceiling

sometimes it seems like i have
stared at the ceiling for longer
than i’ve been able to hold a
conversation with some people.
i have gotten used to repeating
myself twice or just shutting up,
not because I'm not willing to share,
but because I know people
very rarely listen, and very rarely
look up from their phone.
i hunger for connection, but it
feels so impossible to receive
in this modern age of media,
making machines of us all.
so, instead, i am left with that
rumbling feeling of insecurity,
talking to only myself and the specks
of the popcorn ceiling. there's
only so much trying a girl can do.

13. neither kintsugi nor mosaic

i wish i could say that i’m broken,
but beautifully. that my cracks have
become avenues for art, but they
aren’t—they’re filled with dirt.

i go through metamorphosis every month,
but it has become unpredictable, chaotic,
and frustrating. everything has gone back
to normal—my body has/can/will not.

a kaleidoscope still doesn’t make me look
as scattered as i feel—confusing & nauseated.

14. empty except the liquid in my belly

my bones are soaked with broth
my teeth are stained with coffee
everything slowly feels futile
do i even bother pulling the weeds
from the flower beds?
i lay in a bed of clovers
and wish life was simple again

15. hopscotch

16. focus on the present, and smile

in the present, i feel swallowed up, and spit out.
there's an ache of tiredness i’ve never felt before
and a sense of yearning that leaves me empty.
i’m teary-eyed with my head down on my desk,
and i hold my stomach as my mouth salivates
—that stomach rejects everything.
in the present, i wait for the blood and picture
the four negative pregnancy tests that sat
on the back of the toilet this morning.
the female body is confusing and punishing.
i am being punished for wanting a baby,
but for not having one. in the present i am sick,
fatigue, and angry, yet i’m told to smile anyways.

17. hometown

My fathers dad died in the coal mines,
when my daddy was just thirteen. Later,
he moved to the land of salt, where
he met my momma, and it’s where
I grew up around the crawfish boils
as graduation parties and beignets
for Sunday brunch after church.

Every time I return home, I sigh
from relief, but my daddy still looks
out towards the mountains of West Virginia,
not these dull swamps, missing his sense
of home*—one I’m not sure he will
ever get back. It saddens me to know
he won’t find it here, tied to Louisiana.

*is home where you’re from, or where you end up? is home even a place at all?

18. return

what do you do when
you begin to feel devoid of human
and full of muck and grievances
when the sun cannot melt the winter snow
and you no longer know when to smile

what do you do when
nothing grows inside of you
not even hunger
and people don’t know whether
to say goodmorning or walk past silently

what do you do when
silence feels like a trap, yet is
somehow, the only thing you can bare
because speaking feels more dangerous
like thistles on the tongue, people remember

you run to someplace else to try to escape it all, just to instead return right back to it, because there is no running from the hard parts of life

19. hope

I am learning to let go of holding on so tightly to the thing(s) I want the most
because it was never in my hands to begin with, but in His—God’s hand.
I am learning to cradle with care, instead of choking with a pale, tense fist,
hoping they will come into fruition, yet feeling the weight of tragedy
when they do not. I struggle, but I am trying to lean on God more than
I’ve ever had to before. I remind myself—unspoken—that we aren’t promised
the blessing of little feet and giggles, but the blessing of eternal life—something
spiritual, something otherworldly, something beautiful to gaze upon. Somewhere,
deep within me, serenity begins to float to the surface. Still, I have a hope.

20. I’m bitter from the silence in December

the silence that followed made me uneasy.
I didn’t know who knew, and who didn’t
because no one messaged me, no one rested
a hand on my shoulder and offered a word
or two of comfort. I walked with my head
low, aware of the burden of my frowns
because it was “affecting my attitude at work,”
(the owners sat me down and told me)
as if I care about my job at all when I
almost had life growing inside of me.
I wanted to ask for so many prayers, I needed
a hug, a look, a simple acknowledgement
but I didn’t know who to ask, or how.
these things stay behind closed doors,
apparently. don’t let it affect you enough
that people can see that something is wrong.

21. Sunshine

I spent a few days in the sun,
little spots have showed up on my fingers,
and my husband pointed out more freckles
under my eyes, on the bridge of my nose,
ones we hadn't seen before.
I didn't stay inside because I feared the warmth,
but I feared what it would do to me—
uncomfortably happy & smiling, and forgetting,
for just a moment, the stain of tears on my cheekbones
that were there for so long, I thought they were permanent.