Untitled Poem (the words)

Questions like, "will I ever recover?" Can only be answered

Day through day

Week through week

Month through month

Year through year

And only maybe

And only if I am still wondering

In the moment of my death

Maybe

 

So much has come back

And yet

The slow, quiet question, “what’s the point?”

Lingers

Every morning

And draped over each day

Uttered by my crumpled figure

From over in a dark corner

What’s even the point

 

My grandmother fell and broke her hip one day

When she was in her 80s

And she never got up again--not really

Staying in bed caused her health to decline

And after a while

She died

I wasn’t there for any of it

And maybe I have the facts wrong

But still

People don’t always recover

 

My heart broke when I was 36

I’m 37 and it’s still.. broken

I used to squeeze it 

—little bright red balloon—

and it would say

“It’s worth it! Keep trying!”

And now it’s a dull and dirty

Deflated formerly-red thing on the ground

You’d think it was dead

But if you bend down

It mumbles

“There’s no point.”

 

Trying is hazardous!

Caring is hazardous!

I never knew

Never knew

Never knew

 

My guts spilled down the sewer

My corpse is still there on the street

Maybe I’m a ghost after all

Maybe this is the after life

It’s not bad

It’s just.. different

I don’t really miss her anymore

I still kind of hate her

I still write her angry letters

Because what the fuck

I’m still mad some days

And when I’m restless

—here, here’s my embarrassing compulsion—

I pretend she’s reached out

And I write her back

I’ve done it hundreds of times

Had hundreds of fake conversations

Ugh

 

I know I’m going to keep doing it

The way that some people bite their fingernails

 

One day I’ll stop

I’m already reaching back

Back

Back

In time

Towards a child

Living in a toxic environment

I must be her airway

So she can breathe

I must be her window

So she can see

I must be the arms

And the chest with the heartbeat

I must wear the cape

Because the facts are written

And no one ever came

Aha

But time travel wasn’t considered

I’ll peel the letters off the page

One by one

The ones that got scorched

Into my soul so young

The ones that built the world

Quiet little words

Etched onto every beam

Almost too tiny to read

But once you see..

Just like a few ants turn into a thousand

Jittering on top of the sidewalk

Little words become the pattern

Coating the rafters

Embellishing the wallpaper

Good god

It’s even on the spoons

They’re on my pillow

And stitched into my socks

My skin crawls with them

And I try to scratch them off

But then some sinking feeling

Compels me to stop

 

It’s the words

Ha

For a minute I forgot

 

I sink onto the floor

Because it is

It is on everything

Even the air

As if my lungs speak Morse code

And I can breathe them in

“I am a bad and worthless person”

 

Kicking a can

Down an empty street

I wish I belonged with people

She made me feel like I could

For once in my life

She felt like a car wash

Through her I could be made clean

But her advertisements were bullshit

She was just another tattoo artist

Popping my balloons and carving into my scars

Deeper

Deeper

Deeper

 

I hate her

I almost wish I had the stomach

For a villain arc

That would make some great galactic tv

Anyway, fine

 

She pushed my trauma over the fill line

But most of it was already there

Before I met her

And all of it is still my responsibility

 

Breathe

Breathe, Cristina

 

Look, I’m in therapy

I’m writing poetry and

Taking photographs

And doing my job

The fuck do you want from me

So what

If three times a day I have to fight to get up

If my heart’s a has-been balloon

So what?

I may never get to know another person

As long as I live

So what

My heart’s broken

So what

I’m doing a good job at work

I’m still playful and creative and kind

I still cry all the time

So what if my warrior’s died?

So what if I’ll be alone for the rest of my life

I can have plants

And a cat

And watch tv shows

It’s only sad if you compare it

A champion runner who loses her legs

Someone chopped off the pianist's hands

I’m a lover with a broken heart

Whoop-te-doo

Bad shit happens to people every day

 

It’s kind of crazy how my spirit survived

Over a decade of constant emotional abuse

And then this one person

Goes and breaks it

What a gift

How about a round of applause

You know, it makes sense

When I was a kid I had a steady drip

Kind of the same thing

Over and over again

It sucked but it was what it was

But this relationship was like

Being chaotically flung around

My heart being rapidly inflated and squashed

Climbing to the top of a ladder and peeking

Over the horizon and checking my watch

Waiting waiting waiting waiting

Til’ I pass out at the top

And when I wake up I’m hurting all over

And she’s nowhere to be found

Yeah. Yeah it was worse

What a gift

 

Two giant traumas to heal

But it’s easier to hate my ex

Than to hate my mom

So there’s that

 

Man society gets really upset

When you talk too much about your injuries

Well fuck off

You would too if you were me

Fuck right off

Everybody can just fuck off

 

I don’t know how to end this poem

Because there’s no end to how I feel

Just pretend I rhymed something cute

And remember the part you liked the most

Because this isn’t it

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