100 Words: #23-26

23. Intoxication
you need to pump poison into your veins before you find her attractive enough to fuck. head swimming, thoughts a chaotic disjointed nonsensical mess, when pleasure eclipses person – it’s the only way you’re able to find ecstasy in her imperfections

she – she, who remembers all, who burns moments into memory like the smoldering scars of funeral pyres – she traces patterns onto her body with pilgrim fingers trying to find a tripwire that will tell her how your hands felt on her. she doesn’t remember your lips on hers, only remembers the kiss of the bottles she tipped back to pretend she didn’t notice the disgust in your eyes

 

24. Unique
special skills:
– finding, defining, embracing the exceptions to ‘forever’

 

25. Butterfly
With the changing of the season, the butterflies flickered away one by one on wings of jewels and dreams in search of warmer climates. I tried, desperately, to keep them from leaving, but they slipped through my fingers like I was trying to catch smoke tendrils in a net. I knew it was the last I’d see of them; the barren tundra of my stomach would be far too cold for them to call a home again.

 

26. Record
Record the sounds of a life. Record the gentle swish of a brush through hair, record its muted click on a porcelain countertop from another room. Record soft midnight breaths cascading over sweat-sticky exposed skin and the prickling goosebumps that flower under your touch. Get very close, record a heartbeat at its softest, when it’s no more than a whisper. Now, stand back – record the sound of buttons loosened from their restraints, being done up again; the scratch of a fingernail on a pair of shorts. Record windchimes of silverware making music on porcelain dishes at dinner, record dilated eyes and gentle hums of contentment and the sound of a hand pressed against your own. Record the gentle puff of air the follows parted lips, record the intimation of a thought never destined to come to fruition. Record.

One day he will be gone. You will miss him in silence. The things you thought so trivial, once lost, echo into the cavern of his absence louder than noises themselves.

Record the sounds of a life. Play the soundtrack when you miss him. Remember.

100 Words: #20-22

20. Beat
I flatten my palm on the center of your chest, five fingers splayed wide like roots in a fertile garden. Your heart beats a steady rhythm of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard against my palm. I spread my fingers a little wider. Maybe, if I try hard enough, your heartbeat will fill the spaces between my fingers. Maybe, if I try, I’ll never have to let you go.

 

21. Stop
My life is a process of leaving. Perpetual transience. The unstoppable force without an immovable object, I’ve existed in past-tense terms as I left destination after destination in my wake. It doesn’t hurt to leave when leaving is all you know how to do. You’re just a force without an object to give you a reason to stay for a while.

I never thought I’d find anything to make me want to stop leaving things in the past and start living in the present. I’d been committed to my suitcase being my permanent residence, to friendships being as fleeting as a tree flying by outside the window of a speeding car, to a life best lived in the process of moving.

And then I met you.

 

22. Insecure
I wear my insecurities like armor and wield them like weapons. It’s easier to use them to keep the world away than confront the hard truths about myself that I’d rather choke on than swallow.

100 Words: #17-19

17. Dead
You count the dead flies lining your windowsill. Like tally marks carved into wooden bed frames or concrete jail cell walls, they track the weeks spent trapped in your own head, prisoner to the cocktail of chemicals that make bedsheets an impassible barrier.

 

18. Fool
i’m a fool
– for you
– about you
– before you
– because of you
– with you
– around you

 

19. Silence
I’ve settled comfortably into the spaces between your words. Living alone, its intimacy is as familiar to me as the moments I align together to make up my every day. Grandiloquent declarations of affection strung next to uninspired chatter has always made the latter pale in importance in my eyes. Let me hear your laugh, your stories, your testimonies, your thoughts – but let me share the authenticity of your silence.

100 Words: #14-16

14. Good
I am not a good person, but I am trying my best to learn how to be.

15. Voice
The lilting dance of your accent is one with which I am unfamiliar. I could dedicate hours to tracking how sincerity and heartbreak and laughter alter the choreography, how once dancer can be so fluidly adept at performing variety.

I have yet to see the way your lips come into play as a setting – a vehicle – upon which your uniquely-you accent comes into its own. How do downturned lips and teeth ground together and curling-ivy smiles change the way you pronounce your ‘a’? How does nature give way to nurture every time you say my name? How many pages can I fill with its every quirk and detail?

16. Commit
Each of Maggie Nelson’s novels are stories of fixation. Hundreds of pages exploring the color blue, what it means to be a queer mother, transition, loss, death, murder. Her life is dedicated to things and ideas, to inanimate objects and abstract concepts; she analyzes personal stories, anecdotes, objects, definitions. She learns histories and makes them her own.

 
What kind of thing would I focus on like Nelson? A color, like pink? A theory, an event? I’m not sure. I don’t know if I’m the kind of person who can commit to anything, even an insentient substance, with enough zeal to write a whole novel about it. But I think I’m ready to try.

100 Words: #13

13.  See

The first time I see my therapist, she tells me that I’m strong, that I’m valued and valuable, that my life provides a significant contribution to the world and the people around me, and I don’t believe her.  I am vulnerable, not strong.  I am valued for the utilitarian purposes I provide in the moment it’s necessary but that does not make me valuable.  My contributions are ones that anyone could make.  I smile at her and nod.

The second time I see my therapist, she tells me the same thing.  She asks me to repeat the affirmation with her.  She asks me to write it down.  She asks me to do the same thing as I wait for lukewarm coffee to come back to life in the microwave after I wake up and as I try to will my body to decompress as I go to bed.  I do, if only because the money I’m spending to see her should buy my participation.

The third time I see my therapist, she asks how I practice self-care.  I think.  I go running until the pain in my hips and knees makes sitting unbearable.  I make detailed to-do lists filled with more tasks than there are hours in the day, disappointed preemptively in my inability to do three things at once.  I treat myself to a half-portion of my favorite snack and spend three days scrutinizing the reflection in the mirror.  She tells me I do not practice self-care.  I ask her how to care about a self.

The fourth time I see my therapist, she gives my details to a local hospital in hopes that I will postpone my spring semester and admit myself to the three-month inpatient program.  I am not an immediate liability, she says, and so she cannot admit me; she hopes I’ll do it myself.  She hopes it will help me find routine and stability, that I will learn how to cope with depression and understand trauma, that I will find reasons why I should allow myself to eat again, that I will stop writing notes about ending a life worth living, that I will make amends, that I will build a future.  She hopes that three months of structure and constant attention and peers who understand will be the toolkit and instruction manual I need to learn the revolutionary concept of how to cherish myself.

I do not see a therapist again.

can’t find my way home

“So, what does this even mean?”

Paintbrush fingers trace the thin black lines that decorate the cavity in my chest where my ribs meet my sternum. Gentle, like warm mid-May breezes dragging the heady scent of lilacs over my skin. A contrast to the aggressive buzzing bees that had filled the hollow of my stomach as the tattoo gun had scarred meaning into my skin over a year before.

“It’s Vegvisir,” I say. “It’s a stave in Icelandic mythology. It literally means ‘sign post’. Way back in the day, it was supposed to be protection for travelers. They’d paint it in blood on their forehead and it’d help them find their way home, even in storms or bad weather or when they couldn’t tell where they were going.”

“Deep.”

“I got it before I went to Europe,” I add. It feels at once significant and like I’m undercutting its importance.

___

Home. Noun. The place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household. A place of residence.

I’ve lived in Austin, Texas for three years – longer than I’ve stayed anywhere since I was eight years old – but it still doesn’t quite feel like home. My apartment, well-lived-in, is decorated with knick-knacks. The walls are covered in my own artwork. I’ve built shelves, strung up lights, painted the windowsills. I’ve had time to develop a narrative in a place entirely my own.

But coming “home” – coming back to my apartment – still feels like trying to fit a puzzle piece into the wrong puzzle. A key into the wrong lock. The shapes of the edges, the teeth, are similar enough to almost work. The colors close enough to almost blend in. But no matter how much you try, no matter how much you force the issue, you’re still staring at a picture that you don’t quite belong in. A door you can’t enter.

___

Eighteen days alone in Paris. Eighteen days wrapped in the syrupy humidity of mid-July France. Eighteen nights with my feet propped up on the railing of the balcony in the fifth-floor apartment I’d rented in the twelfth arrondissement, the one smaller than my kitchen in Austin, door flung wide to relieve the top floor from the heat that had accumulated throughout the day. Eighteen mornings of rising with the sun and the scent of fresh-baked croissants from the boulangerie five floors below my temporary apartment.

It had been long enough that I’d developed a routine. Wake up and dress to the sunrise washing the sky in watercolor shades of rose and lavender with just the faintest touch of orange somewhere along the horizon. Pick a direction and lose myself on my way to a final destination – to a market or a church or a garden – and watch the way different sections of the city wake up, how they exist so elegantly while I stumbled, awed, through streets cluttered with rows of buildings. Take lunch with a view – of the Seine, of shaded parks, of sculptures tucked amongst trees – and fill pages of a notebook with words that have never felt more significant. Find your tourist destination of the day and abandon it for dinner in a restaurant close-packed with neighborhood residents who know each other by name. Take the metro back to Dugommier, pick up a bottle of cheap wine, wait for the sun to set. Repeat.

On day two, my phone was stolen. A month’s worth of pictures from travels abroad had been lost, along my contact with the outside world. For sixteen further days, it was just me. It forced me to integrate. Make friends with French shopkeepers. Order food when didn’t know what was in it. Learn to find my way without a map. Experience the Bastille Day fireworks with unmitigated wonder. Fall in love with a city even when I’d seen its underbelly.

I left on a Monday morning, unsure if I was leaving a home, returning to one, or some combination of the two.

___

Home. Noun. The social unit formed by living together. The place in which one’s domestic affections are centered.

When nowhere feels like home, everywhere starts to. My mom moved to Texas when I was twelve, we’d moved houses twice before then, and I lived with my dad in Michigan until I graduated during which period we moved seven times. Visiting my mom on breaks from school, I never could get close enough to either parent to establish an emotional connection to them or the places they’d brought me. There was a significant period of my childhood where my battered red suitcase – the one broken and taped back together too many times through too many miles traveled – genuinely felt like home. It was the only stable element in a life that could be upturned at any moment. The only consistency. The only thing linking one state to another, when even I felt like I’d change each time I made the 1400 mile journey, when I realized that more of my life had been spent in transit than in one place.

You take comforts where you can find them. You make homes of places you’ll never see again. You find stability in the suitcase that holds all your worldly belongings. You find something to latch onto, something to call ‘home’.

___

Summer sunshine filtered through the window of a battered Toyota Yaris bedecked in bumper stickers and a Martini racing stripe. Tucked in the backseat amongst a pile of luggage, I felt a sick feeling of loss mount pressure in the back of my throat, the one that always took residence there as I abandoned one place in search of something new.

From Boston to Indianapolis, Montreal, Toronto, New York City, Pocono, and twice to Watkins Glen, that cramped backseat had become a place I looked forward to being almost more than the destination itself. Intimate. More familiar than the return trips to Austin had felt. It was a stable presence in a summer of living in tents and hostels, in living rooms of friends or spare beds of strangers. I’d left a little bit of myself at each locale, a promise that I’d return one day to the streets and forests and tracks I’d explored, but it was always the Yaris that welcomed me back with open arms at the end of a long, sunburnt weekend.

It was the last trip of the year. Back to Austin from September until January. I kept saying I was going home, but there was a familiar feeling telling me that I already somehow was. I was in transit, moving, establishing myself across the country, always coming back to the same familiar face and the same cloth-covered seat. Always, still, with the ruined red suitcase by my side. It felt like home, and I knew it wasn’t.

___

In 2016, I went home. Home. A place of origin. A native place. I had never been to East Lansing before in my life, but it was Michigan – my birth state, my general area of residence for eighteen years – so it became ‘home’.

East Lansing is 120 miles from both the quiet town I grew up in and all the reasons why I hadn’t set foot in the state for two years. A two hour drive if traffic is clear – and it usually is. A two hour drive from the Indiana border, from which I’d come in 2016.

In Michigan, things never quite feel like they’ve changed. I had never driven that particular route before, but there was a sense of recognition. I knew those trees that lined the pothole-ridden streets. I knew the cars eaten by rust, the regional grocery stores, the jumbled Midwestern dialect, the houses with perpetual ‘for sale’ signs tacked in the front lawn. I knew it all. It was home.

But after 730 days away, I didn’t want it to be. After drinking in sights and sounds and smells from across the world, I wanted this to feel foreign in its familiarity. I didn’t want to stop at Kroger to pick up duct tape for my front bumper and know where to go. I didn’t want to find Superman ice cream waiting for me in the freezer of my childhood best friends’ apartment. I didn’t want to hear their voices and fall back into the patterns of speech I’d spent so long trying to abandon.

And yet – 120 miles away from my hometown – it was.

___

Wisner, Michigan is an unincoporated community of Wisner Township, a region whose total number of residents doesn’t exceed 750 in forty square miles, a town so small that it’s unrecognized by the postal system – all our letters had to be addressed to Akron and forwarded from there. Our claim to fame was the Log Cabin Grocery Store that was, in reality, a Shell gas station that served mediocre food and stocked postcards from Lake Huron. You’d have to drive ten miles to find the nearest stoplight, forty-two if you wanted a Wal-Mart. It was a thirty minute walk to the nearest neighbor.

Surrounded by four fields that alternated between corn and sugar beets depending on the year, flanked by three rows of tall pine trees to shield our house from view of the few cars that may pass down the dirt road, was the A-frame house that I grew up calling my home. A two-story nightmare built of knotty wood. [redacted] There that I called home.

I called it my home long after we’d moved out, long after I’d lived in the equally-barren Bangor, the slightly more populated Rose Island and Sebewaing. We’d lived in that house in Wisner for no more than six years, but moving out felt like a displacement of my entire world. My entire being. It was the place that taught me who I was. I’d hated it more than anything, but every time I drove by, I felt wistful. Home.

I don’t remember what it looks like inside now. I can’t remember if my bedroom walls were white or pale blue. I don’t remember how many drawers were in our cupboard, if it was the fourth or the fifth one that held the snacks. I wiped my memory clean when I left, and then spent years trying to recover from the damage of a place that exists only as a symbol. An abstract. The definition to the elusive word ‘home’.

___

“So does it work?” A blunt fingernail scratches ever-so-gently down the line splitting the sigil on my chest in two. Shivers. I lay my hand overtop his and spread his fingers wide, pressing down so that his palm obscures the totality of the tattoo. With it, I’ve found paths and ways. I’ve found places. I’ve found homes that I left behind for other homes. But I’m not sure that’s what he’s looking for when he asks, “You find your way home?”

His hotel room feels a little bit like a home, too, from how many times I’ve been to places like it. I could tell him that. But I smile.

“Something like that.”

100 Words: #9-12

9. Productivity

I pace my breathing to match the blinking text cursor mocking me from the blank white space of the document. Sunlight on the sheets of freshly fallen snow, it blinds me. And yet, I can’t find it in me to muddy the perfection with the filth of my thoughts, my words. What is motivation but a club with which to beat punishment into the battered canvas of my body for failure to be worthy of composing a single word?

10. Shatter

Fifteen years old, you sit amongst the shards of the mirrors in your bedroom. The vanity, makeup compacts, handheld mirrors – nothing remains but fragmentary reflections.

You are tired of seeing yourself. You do not want to have to look. If you can’t see, maybe you won’t have to be disgusted. Instead, you can surround yourself in ruin and count the years of bad luck you’ve damned yourself to.

11. Fly

On the plane to Texas, I carved open my chest with surgical precision and extracted each of my emotions. As we rose above the clouds, I dropped my organs like bombs one by one onto the towns and cities below. Let my spleen, gall bladder, heart, and brain become the four humors of the apocalypse, plaguing people with my biles and phlegm and blood.

On the plane to Texas, microscope in hand, I extracted each remnant of my soul from each one of my cells. Like so many gentle snowflakes piling one atop the other to become malicious drifts, I peppered the broken pieces across state boundaries. Let the rest of the world dig itself free. Let them find a way to live under its weight.

On the plane to Texas, I chiseled away layer upon layer of memory, trying to excavate some fossilized remnant of self crushed by the weight of experience. Rock shards and dust fall away, filling the plane, polluting the lungs of those forced to breathe the contaminated air. Let them cough and choke.

On the plane to Texas, a familiar knife weighing heavy in my hand, I carved away my skin looking for the instruction manual written on the opposite half, on the muscle, on tendon, on the marrow of bone. Let my skeleton be light. Let someone else search for meaning within the discarded flesh.

When I landed in Texas, all that was left were scraps of a former life, a tattered attempt at a smile flapping in the wind like a long-forgotten pennant. I could have become anything. I wanted to become nothing.

12.  Drunk

[redacted]