landmine
foreword
thank you, e.m. & m.m.
for being there for me always
and putting up with whatever
bullshit i threw at you. i don’t
know what would have become
of me without you.
hero syndrome
imagine this:
a ticking clock
a heart halved in two
your life divided into quarters
embedded into the first four knuckles
of your left hand
your father’s beloved toolbox
so you think
of yourself
as a martyr
and you spend
your summer afternoons
stabbing holes
into your palms
thinking this is
something like divinity
something like the cure
to your own
self-contempt
then november comes
and you
are still left
with your mother’s hands
and you realize
wounds
are just wounds
you realize
with hands
on the inside
of your thighs
the teeth
at your throat
that gods
belong to everyone.
catalytic
i.
they tell you that
before you can love someone else
you need to love yourself
after that
you think you’re better of dead
you tell yourself that this (and this and this)
will get better someday
it doesn’t
they talk and they tell you:
i want something easy i want something honest
i want something real but without the sharp edges
without the tragedy without the tear in your voice
when you forget that heartbreak exists for a reason
they want you without knowing
the definition of you
come over but leave your heart at home
your mascara is running
wipe your face, love
else the dogs gnaw at your ankles
else the wolves start howling
in panic
in lolling tongues
in empty throats
wipe your face, love
ii.
you let me into the house
and the cat is still there
but it’s not yours
your mother loves the ocean
and she paints the walls blue
she brings back seashells
she keeps sand in a jar
but the ocean is
five minutes and two lefts
from your window
and i ask
what’s the point
get on your knees, you say
you give me a glass of water
drink it, you say
and i do
and it is all salt and sea
and i remember that
i wasn’t thirsty anyway
i ask
if your mother left your father
for the ocean
iii.
i am not afraid
the first time
when you reach your hands
into my stomach
crack open my ribcage
pull my heart into my insides
i am not afraid
when you drag me to the ground
an imprint
of your bedroom carpet
embedded into my knees
then you teach me
how to drown without a body of water
you teach me
there is no such thing as catharsis
you teach me
how to mourn the death of myself
and how to bury it out in the front yard
you teach me
how to destroy myself
in six months
twenty-eight days
and twenty-two hours
why are you scared, bunny?
iv.
i learn there is violence in your hands
i wonder if there is blood on your father’s knuckles
i wonder if your father’s hands are violent too