4 days off meds

i like to do my crying in hot bathwater,
to fill the tub with glassy blues and greens,
then me,
all questions and itches and bloodrush fantasies.

like when i see people,
i’m obsessed with what they think of me:
my legs and my broken arm and my humor,
those flailing comments in recitation,

why i like glasses and hate skirts,
why i have a ‘pager’ on my belt,
why i don’t wear makeup,
why i like girls but not boys,
why i got with her,
why i broke up with her,
why i got with the next one,
why i started smoking,
why i stopped,
why i take medicine to numb up,
why it kinda makes sense that i avoid people these days.

does everyone think i’m an asshole?
my roommate tells me he does.
i’m insecure but i’m trying.
does anyone see that?
i’m dying to know.

like sometimes i think i know what
death in a plane crash feels like.
the crush of bodies and bones and seatbelts,
an even flare of warmth,
dull-deaf roaring,
then snap-dissolve to white.
but those are just dreams, i think.

i’d rather die in this bath anyway, so
i shave and try not to cut myself,
though a nick here and another there
have me bleeding into the wet.

i wonder if i’m fucking insane
or just another narcissist.
maybe not. maybe both.

all of the hours

i miss you
like i miss blackberry vines on fences.
the pull and pluck and sting of thorn,
pink-black juice and blood.

i miss you
like i miss fish tanks.
the swirl of water and flipwink of fins,
how their tiny ‘oh’ mouths open and shut, open and shut

i miss you
like i miss the mountains in summer.
cool mornings, fog drifts,
dove song, and the smell of hot leaves.

i miss you
like i miss the Bahamas.
you and me and white linen curtains.
coffee in rocking chairs, gently kissing in the dark.

i miss you
like i miss unbroken bones.
no ache, no discomfort, no shame, no aloneness:
a body righteous, repaired.

i miss you
like this, like that, like all the above.
this distance rends me in ways I can barely understand.
it hurts, and i hate it.

will you come back, my love,
and be as kind and careful as the day we first met?
will you bring passion and stories and fire in your hands?

i know that you will, and i’ll do the same:
that way we’ll fuse our lives together again.