love in this season always gets me going.
my hometown, drenched in fat colours,
waiting for me in the suburban heat.
when the doctor asks,
i tell him i am a painter of sorts.
i want to write myself beautiful and open,
but instead it’s just flood. fat colours, fat tears.
fat old balding man in plastic chair who wants
me stuffed with pills to stop the noise.
some feelings don’t deserve words, i always say.
but maybe i just mean myself. no words for this girl,
no sir. you wanna talk about it?
what else do i have to say.
i’d like my heart to jump out of its home,
into the world. want to make the world my home,
but sometimes it just hurts.
saltwater bones, you know me.
it’s in the blood.
he says, “hey, you’re so young, like a baby”
and if i was more of myself, i’d be angry.
but i’m not angry, i’m tired;
the clinic’s walls are all blue, and i’m still crying,
nineteen and fully grown, patient a possible risk to self
so tired, i almost want to ask him to hold me,
because i want to be held, i want to know if this body
still beats, and loves, and lives, because i hope it does,
god, i hope it does.