Andromeda Rising

a poet known as Andromeda Rising

[andromedasanatomy]

forty seven stitches later

i like to pretend that the remaining scars

are flowers woven to my femurs

and i like this cliché sort of feeling—

that there is more life than death in me

its a beautiful thing i save for angry fridays.

at age fifteen i fostered my immortality in trauma centers

a you-cant-kill-me-before-i-kill-myself kind of resilience

diligently tended to and fed with the broken lines of my fathers face

when i told him not to worry—

so foolish of him to worry about his only daughter.

as a fierce eyed nurse pulled shrapnel from my knees

he held my peeled palms to his heart

with a gentleness i had never seen from him before

and he apologized to my mother for the first time in six years

as eight hands pressed my shaking body to stillness.

Weeks later my father taught me how to

remove the stitches all by myself

a grip snip pull but gentler than that

sitting on the bathroom floor on a sunday afternoon

just us and 47 tiny black knots on yellow tile

that watched us like spiders.

All these years later and I still feel immortal,

but perhaps just a little bit less-

a little bit raw

like the skin never grew back over my shins

and I am still oozing blood and puss through

tegaderm dressings onto my childhood bedsheets.

when I close my eyes i can still hear the soft pop of being stitched together.

this is what they don’t tell you about being alive

long after the needles and thread is gone

there will still be an imprint of a disaster—

a stamp from steel on bone—

you carry your foolish mistakes right next to that heart on your sleeve

and you will be stronger for it.

and the violence of your past somehow makes the present

just a little more vibrant.

- “Specimen Jar” by andromedasanatomy

[andromedasanatomy]

Forty seven stitches later

I like to pretend that the remaining scars

are flowers woven to my femurs

and I like this cliché sort of feeling—

that there is more life than death in me

its a beautiful thing I save for angry fridays.

There is a difference between

knowing and believing in these things

when you survive to be as old as  I am.

With memories tucked into searing specimen jars

stacked on shelves for remembering

being fifteen

and secretly knowing that I was immortal

a You-Cant-Kill-Me-Before-I-Kill-Myself

kind of resilience

I made myself known for.

I fostered my immortality in trauma centers

and fed it with the broken lines of my fathers face

when I told him not to worry—

for I was immortal

so foolish of him to worry for his only daughters life.

And when a fierce eyed nurse pulled shrapnel from my knees

he held my peeled palms to his heart

with a gentleness I had never seen from him before

he saw me laughing through bloody teeth

before my body went into shock 

as eight hands pressed my shaking body to stillness.

Weeks later my father taught me how to

remove the stitches all by myself

a grip snip pull but gentler than that

sitting on the bathroom floor on a sunday afternoon

just us and 47 tiny black knots on yellow tile-

they watched us like spiders.

All these years later and I still feel immortal,

but perhaps just a little bit less-

a little bit raw

like the skin never grew back over my shins

and I am still oozing blood and puss through

tegaderm dressings onto my childhood bedsheets.

Some days when I close my eyes

I can still hear the soft pop of being stitched together

sometimes when I look in the mirror

I can still see vibrant gold invincibility through the gaps in my skin

waiting for me to pull at the stitches and set it free.

- “Specimen Jar (wip)” by andromedasanatomy

[andromedasanatomy]

dearest,

you sleep so close to my ribcage

that i worry you will disappear deep into my lungs

never to return.

so i breathe slowly

carefully savoring the feeling of skin on skin

and sometimes for a moment

the death inside me settles to a hum.

[andromedasanatomy]

In my freshman year of college

I told a man no,

and less than a month later

limped back to my dorm room

with a little less faith in men.

-”WIP” (sorry for the lack of updates, my attacker is in my thermo physics class and I’ve been living in fear for this last while.)-Andromedasanatomy

[andromedasanatomy]

Weeks later my father taught me how to remove the stitches all by myself a sort of grip snip pull but gentler than that sitting on the bathroom floor on a Sunday afternoon 47 tiny black knots scattered on the tile watched us like spiders. 

Six years pass and I still feel immortal, but perhaps just a little bit less– a little bit raw like the skin never grew back over my shins like I am still split and full of stitches oozing blood and puss through tegaderm dressings onto my childhood bedsheets.

Sometimes when I look in the mirror I see vibrant gold invincibility through the gaps in my skin waiting for me to grasp the courage and set it free.

Most of the time it is not enough.

-”Specimen Jar(WIP)” by andromedasanatomy

[andromedasanatomy]

You have florists wrists and sweaty, graceless hands.

I dont know you well enough so for now you are nervous laughter and kind inky eyes.

You called me gorgeous on our first date.

Surprisingly enough– I like that.

-”you do not remind me of him, i like that.” by andromedasanatomy

(I hate this piece, but im grieving and need to get back to writing so i can feel better)

[andromedasanatomy]

cancer took my pépé this morning.

i didnt get to say goodbye

[andromedasanatomy]

i.

on tuesday mornings we solve multivariable line integrals backs curved willow boughs over scratch paper together we conspire over deviation principles two salesgirls gripping to bigger dreams

ii.

she is ranunculus eyelashes hips curled to bookshelves in peaceful ways eggshell blue veins shifting under freckles she is soft pencil-tips pressed sturdy to paper sitting next to her i feel like a force of nature.

iii.

i am inky purple lipstick pressed to hydrangeas lashes to telescopes begging to see the edges of the universe vivid orange fingernails tapping vector #28 i am sun-browned kneecaps bumping tables we talk of literary discontent after the numbers are done.

iv.

we are more than blooming bookshelves and pretty colors we are more than lagrange multipliers and neat notes we are more than this– we are more. we are more. we are more.

v.

she is cannibalistic laughter at sunrise thunder ebbing to sun at the twelfth mile sneaky chapsticked smiles stamped to cheekbones blustering sturdy hands at my ribcage– more.

vi.

i am dusky handwriting at midnight little bits of quiet grace folded to brashness spongy breath folding latitudes to ribcages bruised lips caught in panicked half promises– more.

vii.

we are girls. we are girls. we are girls.

viii.

we are more.

–”Extremas” by Andromedasanatomy

[andromedasanatomy]

I am tanlines pressed absently 

to murder-gray bedsheets

a violent lesson in metamorphosis

just vying for that neon sort of feeling  

to creep its way back in again. 

so I shave the hair at the nape of my neck

where he used to fist his hands

a statement made in threaded fingers

to say “i own You”.

so I wear jarringly vibrant lipstick

to gift myself with the aggression and courage 

that he wrung out of my voice.

so I pierce my nose

wearing silver in all ten piercings

to be a different body

than the one who arched its back for him.

I do this to make my memories of his face sneer

to smudge over his kind smiles with honesty

to break the illusion that he was kind.

I do this because

I am angry 

I am angry

I am angry

that I let him water me down

to pastel.

I do this to be neon

I do this for myself.

–”I will capitalize Myself”  by andromedasanatomy

[andromedasanatomy]

sometimes I am

stellar frequencies 

taped to chest cavities

bubbling forth with

theory's and passion

splitting the hairs of the universe

over battered veneer lab tables  

if only to bask in the wonder of it all.

but I am also

frothing lilacs

on street corners

braided to sweetgrass and laughter

sun-stained into being

over cups of sour-sweet lemonade

grasping higher branches

with sap sticky fingers

hoisting effervescence to the sky. 

but mostly I am 

soft cotton

blanketed starlight

creamy smiles with

honeysuckle nectar sipped

from between chipped front teeth

eyes tight to the sky

wishing thrice on

meteor shower birthdays. 

–“I am, I am, I am.” -andromedasanatomy

[andromedasanatomy]

Even though i miss your hands

on my waist

I am happier without you.

Because after I left you my words came

back to my open arms

like billions of lost little children

rushing straight to my lungs they are

shouting

shouting

shouting

“I am free.”

[andromedasanatomy]

Call me Andromeda. 8/12/94. I study physics and astrophysics. I write to deal with how horribly stressful that is.

[andromedasanatomy]

I used to wish that I could love people

in the same way that I love the stars.

But it took me seven years to realize

that my lovers were never constellations

and that i never loved them from afar.

I never broke Ophiuchus’s heart

or left Leo Minor clutching at my ribcage –

Altair never made me arch my back in pleasure.

Instead I was incredulous towards Vincent

I left Mikael with a black eye and bruised ankles–

I stopped loving Ryan long before he stopped loving me.

I learned the hard way

that they will break you just to hear

your lungs collapse

and your sternum split–

that they will fuck you just to feel

your wrists crumble 

and your hips unhinge–

they will break you just to break you.

From this I learned that you must break them first.

[andromedasanatomy]

There is a boy from Kosovo who lives on my floor and smokes like a non-believer. I think of flowerbed ledges while he smokes his thirteenth cigarette  with restless feet and embers clutched between thick knuckles he tells me that I am his first friend in America and that he used to dance  but stopped when his father was killed just over seven months ago. Sometimes I find myself looking for a smile like blades thrown in the darkness digging secrets from the cracks of his bones and lining them up like letters on a page until they get cold  like coffee still bitter after sugar and milk.

[andromedasanatomy]

kindness

i used to write poetry like i meant it spitting sour verse like bile from a cracked pipe, those words were worth more than the last beats of my grandmothers ailing heart and i liked it that way. but you stole words from my paper lips faster than the blunt force trauma that took my mothers memories just over five years ago. i should have never let you take them away from me

when we were together second hand cigarette smoke tasted more like autumn on my tongue than failing organs. "don’t stand too close to smokers." have been the doctors orders ever since i had my first asthma attack while my father watched helpless in the living room of our medina home. you were strictly and medically forbidden and i should have listened.

but i told myself that i stopped breathing eleven years ago at the start of second grade when my family split clean down the middle and i learned that medication can’t heal heartache   the hard way. so i never really bothered to carry inhalers for emergencies or the occasional heartbreak induced attack.

and when your fist hit my flesh, your hand gripped my ankle- my wrist in that darkened dorm room of a friend it was like remembering how to breathe how to be fierce once again so i hit back and you fucked up my knee it was worth it.

of course i was the one who broke your heart when i found my footing putting too much pressure onto that knee you fucked up and stopped listening to your excuses because really, every excuse sounds reasonable if you’re enamored just enough.

and i must admit, you really had some solid excuses. your dad was murdered, each beating from your parents meant love to you, and of course women don’t hit back where you came from halfway across the world. so you must have been so shocked when i punched you with impeccable form. you never did believe me when i told you that i was a black belt- shame on you. 

you thought i would cower forever, what a shock it must have been to you when i found my courage and finally looked you straight in the eye until you tucked your chin to your shoulder to avoid me. the first of 73 small victories. breaking off from you was a lesson on how to be good to myself, a lesson on how to speak again, and i’m still learning.

it has been almost a full year since I started this poem and i am still reaching for closure, hoping that it will come easy—knowing that it won’t because you always got the final word because you could never admit that you were wrong because you lied about me to my friends and it took them months to see through your slick slander some of them still haven’t. because it took even longer for me to delete your texts one by one until it was like you were never in my inbox in the first place.

closure takes time and i’m so torn when i see you walking by folwell hall or in the halls of the tate physics building i want to hurt you like you hurt me, i want to make you cower i want to tell your research professor everything and ruin you but more than that i want closure, so i clutch my inhaler and force myself to breathe to walk past you and pretend that you never told me you loved me.

today when i deleted your number from my phone i added one more victory to my list and one more kindness to myself.

[andromedasanatomy]

I turned nineteen

on a beautiful day in August

still just as shaken as I was

four years ago

but perhaps

just a bit more content

than I ever was before.

[andromedasanatomy]

nowadays i think of dusk more than dawn

and how my hands never used to hesitate 

before.