the medication

  • when i lifted my arms up in this light silk lazy butterfly robe a really pretty moth flew out of nowhere from the faucet in the bathroom. it had light hazel spots. i think maybe it thought it was in a butterfly cave, i think the moth was like "finally." do butterflies have caves? they should. the moth followed me to my room and i let it sit above my mirror while i folded clothes and listened to joanna newsom. it was the first time i was able to tolerate music in months and this is the first positive thing i have put into words with my fingers.

  • cleanse song / first day of actual movement in about six weeks, a new course of treatment begins, not fun./ first day hearing sound and walking around / i found one lace glove and notebooks from high school / i put things on shelves /i listened to music like a thirsty god with bare feet in the desert, we never learn if its a real life desert or if it comes from his head but god damn the music is good. 

  • hi jade tree. jade tree i promise to try really hard to bring you back to healthy life while i work on mine and we'll get better together and be the greenest and full of water and chlorophyll and we'll use our arms to wave around while dancing.

but we'll be okay, i tell my hands, we've lost things before. this is it. we'll be fine, right? the blood is thick and hot and not human. not just "inhumane" thats too easy, too moral, its an animal with claws. and you know no one can tell you you're dreams. that's the thing, you're alone there in them, even after them, you're alone with them still inside you, no one else is there, are they.


sometimes i wash my hands for a really long time, too long maybe, the water rushing onwards is a cool-warm answer to questions i don't have to efficiently  translate word-to-word or worry about answering. i hate talking on the phone, it  feels insincere and flimsy. there are movies and songs that get underneath my skin and stick there. they make my heart close in on itself, like a million doors slamming shut until the oxygen has no rooms left to sleep inside. i've had these specific re-occurring dreams periodically, since i was little, that seem to acknowledge some spiritual hallway to walk through. it's somewhere close to suicide, like a nudge, a gateway. a "nows the time."

hell isn't a place it's a thousand bugs in your brain. hell is slow, hot blood in the skinny cold shells of blue veins. hell is a bruise. i'm sorry. did you call my name? i seem to have lost it somewhere. i lay in its absence for hours. i have found it is almost bearable if i stay perfectly still. i listen. i can hear them. don't mind me, this is how i cry now. 

In the trunk of your car.

i can't write anymore. at all. my brains turned into some kafka-esque cockroach that sits curled in the corner worried about its inability to show up for work. 


you're not just my rock you are the tigers eyes pebbles i'd always search for when i was really small.


some asshole kid keeps yelling out of his hotel room window while a bunch of his friends laugh in the background. their voices have the stepped-on-frog-sound of fresh puberty. i'm sitting outside, alone, in what they call a gazebo, inside this small white-painted wooden structure. one million years ago in high school we'd climb through the forest-like parts of prospect park to a gazebo just like this one. we'd bring kegs and throw parties there until the cops came up and chased us. we'd scatter and hide. i remember crouching behind trees and bushes holding my breath until their flashlights were far enough away, just tiny, tiny dots. it's almost as dark out here now as it was back then. 'STOP SMOKIN' THOSE FUCKIN' CIGARETTES!' the kids yelling, 'YOU'RE GONNA GET CANCER.' they sound really drunk and it really just makes me want a very strong fucking drink. yeah, a drink. yes. cancer. yes, that's the plan, kid. you think i wanna stick around forever? like this? forever thumbing through thesauruses? with my thoughts fighting love off until we're both bruised up and bleeding? with the aching tosses and turns in my pathetic excuse for sleep? some wedding party for a strictly spanish-speaking couple is moving loudly from the banquet hall to the bar. nothing here is poetic. poetic would not be caught dead at this party, or in this hotel. i know because i've looked. mostly i try and put it where its needed. i place it somewhere and then try to keep it still, like a squirmy toddler in time out. i don't have to be out here, kid, i don't. but smoking these cigarettes is just about the last reckless thing i'm privy to. my life has other ideas and they exclude all of mine. i'm gripping this last dirty habit like the phone your lover called to tell you that it's over. and yet still, everything moves. everythings moving. the kid spits out his window. i don't know where it lands. i don't say anything. what could i say?  i am breathing slowly in through my nose and out through my mouth because that's how you breathe when your head and lungs can't remember how to. reminding them is a full time job, unpaid but full time. to curb the side effects, i do it. so as not to wake the monsters. for christs sake do not wake any monsters. doctors orders. the kid yelling out of the window has no idea. sure i could come up with some things to yell back that might teach him a lesson. something really clever. but i don't. i'd rather let life do it, in its unkind and unexpected ways. let life tell him. life can let him know it all. he's still got so much time not to know. 


I'm A.W.O.L., pups.
I'll be back soon. It's dark.