A Disjointed History
When I was six years old a part of me was preserved in a glass case
kept in a mid-size brown house, next to rows of crusty butterfly wings.
I think of myself as a photograph
The imagery bleeding, colorless,
stuck in the bottom of a drawer.
Sometimes I like to sit in puddles of rainwater
I count the drops and, bowing my head
I mumble fragments of song.
Fragments of anything I wish I could scream
And I let everything around me blur
There was a boy with dull brown eyes
nice enough but he reeked of charm.
He tricked me into going to the park with him
I'd never felt so at ease
we let ants crawl over our clasped hands,
Wished on flowers by blowing out the seeds,
Made angels in the grass
And realized how to destroy each other.
I have a fear of seagulls
but somehow I always wind up at the beach.
I pile sand on my stomach and ponder
if it is easier now to stay the same.
If I was romantic I would keep your letters
As it is I bury them in the sand
They upset me
Maybe some day I'll look up and see
your shadow is what prevents me from my much needed tan.
The sand will kick up and we'll be side by side
Then the tide comes in and with it we drown
My head hurt
I believed my brain was trying to escape.
I can still remember the look on your face
The loss of composure when
I said we didn't need forever.
I felt guilty but
It was a concept I couldn't wrap my head around
You whispered something to me
I always forget what.
I guess it wasn't all that important