The wall crested with a shadow
Of the rickety staircase
is a reminder that support
can’t always hold its own
it rarely does
but support is rather
the lies we tell ourselves
Blanketed snow of white lies
lips cracked,
smothered in the peppermint chapstick
that you’ve collected
from a past Christmas.
it joins the chaos of the drawer
with all of those that have come before it,
the nested nature of holiday spirit
only a distant memory
Distance.
how far is too far?
how far can we move from ourselves?
Too many questions.
I’m inclined to say “I’m sorry.”
I’ve been told that being too curious
is not “ladylike”
But I’m not a lady no matter how many times
you tell me I am
You tell me what you think you know
but there’s so much that you don’t
You can’t feel the fluttering of my thoughts
Neurons transcending
becoming something new
Internal. Flooding.
The words can’t convey
whatever the fuck is going on in here
But I spew out a word or two
Because you feel the need
to be acknowledged
Acknowledgment.
I’m constantly asking myself
what it would look like
If I honored my needs
or acknowledged that I even have them
Acknowledging that
the relationship I’ve built with myself
is toxic.
Something I need to
unravel.
Unraveling.
Ripping apart the scarf
I so delicately crocheted
Because I fucked up
on the fifth row.
I kept going because at the time
I didn’t care about the damage
it would cause later
Stitches ripping at the seams
blue fuzzies stuck
on the chain of my necklace
Fingers too slicked with sweat
to untangle the strings
that have made their home
around my neck
Neck.
The way you rubbed your fingers down mine
when I asked you
not to.
Somehow shivering
when the thermostat is set
to 81.
Inappropriate affect.
I never know what to do with my face.
Face. Dry winter skin.
Breaking out. Hormonal Shifts.
The whole nine yards.
The same ones that you’ve walked
far too many times.
Nine yards lacking a number to hold onto
Infinite.
your feet are moving too quickly
Beneath you.
Disconnected. Slipping on the slickness of the tub.
Bruised. Naked.
The water puddling into your skin.
Skin. Covering too much.
Not enough.
A blanket from the $2 bin.
stitches loose.
But small enough to fit
into a gift basket
I made this gift basket
as if I were giving it
to someone I love.
Maybe I love them or
I wish that I loved myself.
I do.
That’s why it hurts so much
that I
don’t.