We gonna stay here 'til we soothe our souls.

I put my orange sweater over my bare legs,
because I didn’t want you to see where thin purple veins
like small snakes scatter themselves on my white thighs.
Where tiny craters or silvery lines like stretched out lightning bolts
illuminate my insecurities.
Suck in, I think. I think, suck in.
I feel prettier when I hide how I feel, I feel you, feel I’m prettier
with jeans or an orange sweater or baggy shirt or a blanket or the dark.
Some mornings I wake up and I think I’ll rule the world,
even though the doctor told me that I still have eight to go
until I’m in the normal range.
Sometimes I stare at myself in the mirror and I think
just suck in, I think.
But nothing changes and so I curse the squishy soft loud curves that crash on me like waves and sometimes I’m sure I might drown in my lack of cheekbones and a six pack.
Always, though, I cover the snakes, because when I let them breathe,
in that moment of feeling free and beautiful,
I can’t stop looking at them,
waiting for them to bite.
But some nights I get into bed and I think that I could jump right back out
and fly.

if i put on lipstick, i’ll be beautiful.
will you look at me then?
big red lips like plums dripping wet
and eyes thick with black glup,
the sound a fish makes.
drink water until i’m full,
slim down ‘til people stare.
tell me that i look good
tell me that i’m pretty.
dye my hair
nails painted black (it adds to the mystery)
do you like me mysterious?
try and figure me out,
get a taste of lips that smack together
like slapping a bug on the wall.
run my hand under my chin
and then my other chin.
my legs too white, too big, too big.
my stomach soft, jutting over
the pinching tightness of my pants.
the mirror scrutinizes every fold, frown,
a magnifying glass that never breaks.
i pinch the skin and think of thinner days,
ice cream, beer, bread and wings
these are a few of my favorite things.
i gobble them up,
the sound a turkey makes,
do you still think i’m pretty?
with my pink lips, clean nails,
big hips like a real Barbie.
hair’s a mess, crumbs on my face,
soft stomach, soft butt, soft legs, soft chin,
to be thin is to be hard.

People have been saying “one day at a time”
for a long time,
We treat our feelings
as if we’re the only ones who have ever felt them.
As if people haven’t been crying out for help
For love
For answers
For resolution
For
God get me out of this mess before I take myself out of it,
For centuries.
People write books about this, right?
They write poetry,
or pound out their feelings once a week with their therapists
As if their calculated and robotic responses and nods and furrowed brows
Will ever create permanence and stability or make things okay.
As if “one day at a time” is ever enough to get us through the worst.
And we cut off our hair and we cry and say we’re just having a bad day,
So nobody really thinks twice.
Connection. What the hell is that?
Connect to what?
You?
Myself?
My past future present past past past—
We ignore each other, do we choose that?
Everybody pretends that everybody else is okay.
We even pretend that we’re okay,
And that’s what makes it unbearable when we realize we aren’t.
Stop playing the part and just let yourself go.
Those of us who question and feel and hurt and cry and
I can’t do it anymore, are you listening? HEY! YOU! LOOK AT ME.
(Why doesn’t anybody see me?)
We’re the ones who are living, and who will survive.
“One day at a time” isn’t enough,
Mindfulness isn’t enough.
Optimism? Please.
Love isn’t enough.
But we are. This is.
Existing and hating and fighting and crying and loving and hurting and lying and laughing.
We need all of it to survive.
The good, the bad and the ugly,
Buckle up, buttercup. We’re in for a rough ride
and other clichés like those.
And even when we don’t think we can make it,
we get through another day, we wake up.
Hey, you woke up this morning!
For right now, that’s enough. Because it has to be, right?
Sure, it gets better. Whatever. What the hell does that matter now?
We drive in our cars and speed
and want to let go of the wheel and go flying off the highway
so that it looks like an accident.
So we won’t hurt as much.
Like hurting and feeling are bad things.
Like they aren’t reminders that we’re alive and reacting.
We don’t realize that there are other people driving
on the same stretch of road as us thinking the same damn thing.
Remember when I told you
I wanted to put stones in my pocket
and walk into the river like Virginia Woolf?
You laughed.
I drank a bottle of rum
and stood at the river’s edge for what seemed like an eternity that night,
and then I fell asleep on the rocks like a homeless man.
I felt dirty and stupid and weak and used and hopeless and “one day at a time”
didn’t mean a damn thing.
When I woke up the pain wasn’t gone and I wish I’d died.
I felt bad for hurting myself.
For the fresh marks on my wrist
and the vomit on my shirt from where I threw up by the water
and for the memories that I couldn’t let go of
and for not being better already,
because how long does it take?
We’re animals.
Some of us are broken, some of us are more broken than others.
You think you’re beyond repair?
You think nobody gets it?
You think there aren’t other people who cry until they’re heaving,
Trying to breathe but not being able to stop
Screaming at the air?
Such a perfect audience, it’s so quiet, so unoffended and unassuming.
Do you think that other people don’t feel their hearts breaking?
They feel the pieces embedding in their sensitive flesh
Like a razor digging into their skin.
Some of us are ugly and mean and pretending and that we don’t care.
But you’re fucking beautiful,
Because you’re here and you’re hurting
And you know it.
You’re perfect for knowing it.
But you’re going to be okay.
You’re going to be okay.
You’re going to be okay.
You are going to be okay.
You. Are. Going. To. Be. Okay.
Okay.