My Angels

When I was little they told me in church

that I was never alone, even if it felt like I was.

 

I didn’t understand that I would need to remember this.

I didn’t understand that they were speaking to my future self.

 

When I was little they told me in church

that if I was sad, I just needed to pray.

 

I didn’t understand that I would need to remember this.

I didn’t understand that they were speaking to my future self.

 

When I was little they told me in church

that things would always work out, that everything would be ok.

 

I didn’t understand that I would need to remember this.

I didn’t understand that they were speaking to my future self.

 

When I was little they told me in church

to always believe, even when it was dark and I couldn’t see—

that there was a way out of misery—that someone would always

dry my eyes—that crying in the corner wouldn’t bring the light in.

 

I didn’t understand that I would need to remember this.

I didn’t understand that they were speaking to my future self.

 

One day, when I was sitting on the drain in my shower, with my hair over my face and my arms around my knees, with the doors locked—I remembered.

I said a prayer and opened the door. The angels held me in their arms. They brought movies and tissues and chocolate and love.

The angels were my roommates.

The Crutch Life

My leg feels like a noodle

My head feels like a rock

My heart feels like a racecar

That simply will not stop

 

My underarms have bruises,

My back still has a scar.

 

My stomach feels like paper

Pushed down way, way too far.

 

Scene

Image

It is November. Boy and girl stand in front of the harbor with their arms over the railing, staring at a boat. Boy is on the right, girl is on the left.

 

Boy: You see that rope right there?

 

Girl: Yeah

 

Awkward pause, Girl glances towards boy quizzically

 

Boy: We could climb up it and weasel our way in through that window.

 

Girl laughs softly

 

Girl: But how would we get to the rope?

 

Boy shakes his head

 

Boy: Well, you know, hypothetically it could work.

 

Girl smiles to herself, turns to boy

 

Girl: How much further do we need to get again?

 

To make the room less empty

Image

I bought myself flowers on

The eigth of July. A no good

Mother I was for them. I cut

off their stems, stuck them

 in a bottle and expected them

to live.

 

They died in two days.

 

They died and I watched them

Die—from the corner of the

room I didn’t want to live in

anymore. Then… I missed them.

I asked for more flowers.

 

The flowers never came. 

The Beast

Image

It is misshapen, underplayed,

Never tuned, Spilled on:

Despised for its

Broken parts.

 

A slash from the point of my shoulder

to the arch of my back. I, too, have

bent and broken parts—a hollow

divet where they took it out.

 

It was eating me, I think.

But, my body misses it.

 

It feels broken.

 

After all the part is gone

And some good went out

With the bad, and being broken:

It no longer understands

How to play

Or be played.

 

I am learning to love the broken keys of life:

The missing parts—the junk.

 

I am learning to love my bent and broken parts.

 

I am learning to love the piano no one wants to play.

 

See, this is me being brave

This is me being brave

and pretending nothing

happened.

 

This is me being brave

and asking for help from

strangers.

 

This is me being brave

and believing things will

change.

 

This is me being brave

and going to class, biting

my lip.

 

This is me being brave

and waiting for an answer.

beingbrave