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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.

  Kaylen, a Campus Correspondent for HC at Wells, is a senior at Wells College studying Women's and Gender Studies and Psychology.  "Like Ivy, we grew where there was room for us"-Miranda July
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