and-speak

and they say       i love you and i say       i’m a they and suddenly i vanish

and the last time i saw you you didn’t see me sitting on a rock outside the coffee shop i glimpsed you walking by —     as soon as you were gone     i became stone, too the last time i spoke with you, you texted, saying if this is goodbye, i’m sorry i wasn’t enough       (to keep you alive) and the only other time after that you asked for your things to be sent back to you -     the board game we played     the flannel you lent me     and a book i gifted you it’s been nearly a year now and i’m still the sky and i got higher for a while and still far from grounded if being grounded was as eas

and the sage on my windowsill almost died and so did i but        still, we breathe i’ve wrapped a flag around my wounds and it’s made of people like me it absorbs me, it’s as if               i am the apple juice i drink        in place of the veuve clicquot        my mother has become and        even though she isn’t french it consumed her too

and the calm of the skies is silence— silence of deadly storms rests eyes        for just a moment silence of a highway        when no wheels shift their        weight on it silence of        snow hugging the bases of        trees, it falls— flakes        onto the backs of        flurries onto the backs of        the blizzard’s winds silence of when you        hope that when your hand        embraces hers        she wont pull away —and the sound of the skies is open eyes

and watching the shape of the window crawl up the wall in yellowed light —        earth shifts beneath        with ease it               spins if suns could choose        between being        beings of light or        beings of life, i wonder — clouds, peculiar things if i gathered up their condensation in a jar would they still be a cloud maybe just        a collection of sky-tears would they still tiptoe on the heels of the earth throw tantrums become shy enough to disappear leaving the earth to whirl alone

and after pulling the body of my mother from the driver side window        (her coach purse dyed        with the maroon of her blood)  it soaked everything i looked around and there was no one i screamed, shaking, yelling stop at the red sign she had bent over, now a metal pretzel baking in exposed engine heat

and is holographic fire still fire or only a hollow form to fit flames —       left my coat at home today to       let the snow bury me to       let myself know what cold feels like to shiver i get home at the end of the day and struggle to breathe, ribs angry chest desperately trying to exist       i want to cry upon the release when my hands start shaking i shave my head, bare it to the trembling evidence of breathing skin beneath superficial femininity giving up is such a fucking waste of time

and when you asked if you were dreaming when you pushed your hand beneath my shirt under moonlight streaming through the windows i said no and you smiled said oh im sorry and i said it’s okay but what i meant was i was awake and you were too but couldn’t see the tears in my eyes you couldn’t see my trembling fingers you did this before and said nothing you did this before so did others this body is not my body it is a body belonging to other bodies it is a body abused it is a body used it is a body used to abuse and while complacency has kept me safe it has left its scars and i have saved all the plastic bags and boxes to ke