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

and soon

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