paper cuts

watching the cars out of my window, realizing that i will be doing this for the rest of my life
and nobody will be there to put their hands on my shoulders.




i feel good. people said nice things. i felt nice. i didn't even know what was going on, but i sang and sang and played and everything was wonderful.

some days i feel like a special person. some days.



family is here for the weekend.
my anxiety level is consistently hovering between a 7 and 9.
there is not time to be alone.
they are asking questions about what i'm doing after graduation.
they are forgetting to ask me to spend time with them.
i have to babysit my little brother.
i have to babysit my grandparents.
i do not want to live at home this summer; i need to save money.
never did call him.

things are very hard right now, it seems.
and i know this transition is hard for everyone.
i just have a few other ones to make at the same time, and it's so hard to let go. of people, of habits, of places, of things. of ideas and feelings.
i am scared, always.

(you love everything i'm not//where am i supposed to go when you're gone)


and the kitchen sink

it's monday morning. i tried to start a free write, but i'm at work and easily distracted by requests, people, books, conversations.

two more weeks and then I have a bachelor's degree. not quite sure what that means.

started packing up books. it's lonely, looking at empty shelves. i don't know where i'm going. and nobody does, sure, and i keep talking to people about that, but it'd be nice to know where i am going to be in three months. jesus.

fuck it.



i dreamt about my father last night;
i've lost three pounds this week.

i've been craving mint;
i bought tea and gum.

the weather here comes in contractions;
spring is an orgasm that lasts three weeks.

i want consistency, normalcy, a leveling out.
this is unrealistic.


easter, 1999.

a pot full of hard-boiled eggs, color stained hands,
a phone off its hook.
the air is thick with egg-smell, dial-tone,
that beeping sound when the cradle is empty too long;

the closet under the stairs is filled with board games,
but it can still (just barely) fit a beanbag and a girl of eight.
the cord for the light is in reach if you're sitting on something.
the only sound is the hum of the water heater
and the buzz of the lightbulb.

the only sound is the hum of the water heater.

tiny patches of brown-black snow that hold on through spring.
the last one in the neighborhood is in front of our house.
it leaves a tiny pile of dirt and litter at the end of the driveway;
it washes away by the end of April.

the air is thick with emptiness, dial-tone.

beep. beep. beep.
beep. beep. beep.



i can't figure out what it is i am not.
(all the things i am not.)

longer update coming later; it is nearly 2 AM. i haven't been here in so long. i am not ready.