etcetera, etcetera

your old life, but all the colors are muted a little. your old life, but faster and a lot more painful. it’s everything you imagined it would be, & so temporary that the central line in your chest aches to say goodbye. you are a guest here. in this body and in this world, you are only passing through. my thoughts bump into each other like two strangers on a subway car — wholly eclipsed by a moment, for a moment. stunned. ready to move away from each other the second it becomes possible. we pass through this day every time the sun rises, yet still we find ourselves to be strangers . my thoughts don’t know each other.  the air sits wrong in my lungs. strangers . unfamiliar because we have no reason to make each other's acquaintance, reality and i. i'm craving drinks i've never tasted, and the world has never been so still. i find my inspiration fused to a peppermint at the bottom of my grandmother's purse and slip the candy-coated nostalgia into my first draft, words

  “she hates how much it rains, but it's raining all the time. she said, "i’d like to go home, i don't feel right in these clothes, and i might be losing my mind.” they say that insanity is doing the same things over & over for a chance at different results, and maybe that’s true. but if it is, then why do we define hope the same way? my tongue twists. i am wrong, as i am a lot of things these days. pretentious. aggressive. delicate like a bomb, not fine china; waiting for the right catalyst to make me explode. definitions are no longer my friend, if they ever were at all. they twist my tongue into foreign shapes. i used to understand words; knew how to use them. in the beginning, language was my friend.  𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙣: a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen. a feeling of trust. grounds for believing that something good may happen. 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚, 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙗: to want something to occur or be the case. intent, if possible, to do something. i live

  “𝘪 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴; 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘩, 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭; 𝘪 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 '𝘦𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸.” you are the stained glass i stared at every sunday for eighteen years. you are the kneel and bow at the end of a pew; a sign of the cross and a mass card with tear-blurred ink. you are the fractured, gasping sobs echoing through the basement of a funeral parlor in brooklyn; i knock on the door and suddenly, you are the silence that hides grief by swallowing it whole. you are blatant refusal to turn the knob. i am all bent safety pins and picked locks, never quite sure what ‘no’ is supposed to mean when it’s your lips that form the words. “𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳

𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, "𝘪𝘧 𝘪 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴: 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦. 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘴, 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘴." i said, “i’m sorry.” i said, “forgive me.” i said, “i love you.” and the world was silent. am i my brother’s keeper? am i my brother’s keeper? am i? i am. am i? i am. and so it was. then i got older, and i became my mother’s keeper, too. then my father’s, tears streaming down my face for the only example of a good man i’ve ever consistently known. i am my brother’s keeper, but no one more so than you. it was always you. “𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘦𝘴 — 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘺. 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰

 draft begets draft begets draft,  and they are written in ink, lead, blood, stars. words are etched into the backs of closed eyes, one dose of 'i want to believe again,' every four to six hours as needed. frantically scribble in journals, prn. you can't help but reach for the chemical calamine of a drawn up syringe, with acid rain on fluttering eyelids and one last letter in the mail. one right turn down the wrong side of the city, and we're locking our doors every time we pass strangers. we are lost in this mass hysteria of what people call "life".  ink. lead. blood. stars.

tequila swims through my veins like silverfish in a summer creek and i can't nail the walls to the floor. every sip burns with reckless, thoughtful intent; if every decision i've made as an adult is set to burst into flame, why be so bold as to make any more? if there's one thing i've learned lately, it's that if you're born with a silver spoon in your mouth, choke on it before it rusts on your tongue. the last sip goes down like 'tuesdays' by jake scott on nights when the voices explode like fireworks behind my eyelids. tension gulps down mouthfuls of air until we're rationing oxygen and the air tastes like copper. a smoky bar, the years behind us, and we kiss like he's going off to war. he winds his hands through my hair, down my shoulders, and leads me to a piano bench somewhere in the back. the crowd is thinning but his eyes are shining, and his fingers move gently as he apologizes for magic. i wish he wouldn't. i wish it were snowing.

the urge to write is sudden, strong, immediate. i am laying on my side, curled inward around the pain, when the words begin to thrash wildly in the back of my mind. i don't know how to harness it or contain it, so i attempt to do both. "i - hello. hi there. it's been awhile." i don't know how to welcome back the rising tide of emotions, but i do know how to start a draft. eyes welling up, fingers flying: how can you have a masterpiece when you've never built its foundation?  note to self: stop giving up because you never started, then feeling disappointed with the results.    the unraveling feels like catharsis. the tap, tap, tap of words under frantic fingertips feels like oxygen after holding my breath. i don't know how to write about five month admissions or the slow burn of fear. i couldn't tell you about the tiny germs creeping through my veins; the ones they're not sure they know what to do with this time, they are so sorry.  instead, i