(no subject)
1.
i fled. nauseated from the syrupy scent of roses blooming on my altar. nauseated from my own heartbreak. from sleeping too much and trying too little. monday morning, i fled. on a bus that made one stop in the middle of my half-home one and my half-home two. the middle is always the most anxious spot. it's where time stands in the oddest way-- you can't wait to get out of there yet you never really want to get where you're going, that other side of reality, where you have to reconcile all your halves, when there's really only room for one.
nauseated from my half-way home of disconnection and public transportation, of layers of community and complete isolation, of too many reminders and a sick belly, i fled. and like a sick bird i flew, sweaty and weak, into the thin arms of my mother. too weak to defend myself from the initial glass and fire of her personality, i bore the hot slices of her into me until i just felt warmth. she was my last island to come to, and she was the one.
2.
i typically experience having too many options. but i didn't have any left so i came here.
3.
some days, i escape you. even with the nauseating reminder in my body of how i tried to not love you. other days, it comes like a wave on the wind, and crushes me with salt and water and weight. i feel alive then, overcome with longing. let me just say it, this once, and i will let it go to the universe, like i did the other night when i stood in that open field behind the houses. the other night when, hot and heart-opened from running, i turned to the sky for help. and i bowed to her-- with long, weepy surrenderings of my arms, bending under the overwhelming height, weight and width of you and my mother and my sister and this belly. let me just say this: i miss you. i don't know what it means to me yet, but i miss you. because my love for you is thick. it is thick like the half-way point between half-home one and half-home two, dense like salt or the scent of foxtails and black sage that grow wildly across the street.
4.
i flee. jumping between insufficient environments (insufficient because i am not well). trying to adapt just to hold steady for a minute, before i jump back into it again, hoping that this going between and around and over and under will somehow spit me out again, stronger.
i fled. nauseated from the syrupy scent of roses blooming on my altar. nauseated from my own heartbreak. from sleeping too much and trying too little. monday morning, i fled. on a bus that made one stop in the middle of my half-home one and my half-home two. the middle is always the most anxious spot. it's where time stands in the oddest way-- you can't wait to get out of there yet you never really want to get where you're going, that other side of reality, where you have to reconcile all your halves, when there's really only room for one.
nauseated from my half-way home of disconnection and public transportation, of layers of community and complete isolation, of too many reminders and a sick belly, i fled. and like a sick bird i flew, sweaty and weak, into the thin arms of my mother. too weak to defend myself from the initial glass and fire of her personality, i bore the hot slices of her into me until i just felt warmth. she was my last island to come to, and she was the one.
2.
i typically experience having too many options. but i didn't have any left so i came here.
3.
some days, i escape you. even with the nauseating reminder in my body of how i tried to not love you. other days, it comes like a wave on the wind, and crushes me with salt and water and weight. i feel alive then, overcome with longing. let me just say it, this once, and i will let it go to the universe, like i did the other night when i stood in that open field behind the houses. the other night when, hot and heart-opened from running, i turned to the sky for help. and i bowed to her-- with long, weepy surrenderings of my arms, bending under the overwhelming height, weight and width of you and my mother and my sister and this belly. let me just say this: i miss you. i don't know what it means to me yet, but i miss you. because my love for you is thick. it is thick like the half-way point between half-home one and half-home two, dense like salt or the scent of foxtails and black sage that grow wildly across the street.
4.
i flee. jumping between insufficient environments (insufficient because i am not well). trying to adapt just to hold steady for a minute, before i jump back into it again, hoping that this going between and around and over and under will somehow spit me out again, stronger.