Poetry From Trappist-1b

This is not a love poem.

[classm-poems]

Childhood

Dirt in my mouth,

hair, loose, ripped from the stem,

the color red.

My memory is a sieve.

I don’t remember but 

I know what it was like to be alone,

months (and years) sliding by,

slipping past in the stream, 

lubricated and staining my skin,

motor oil on silk.

The dents in my mind

where that time should be

are shaped like objects I don’t remember.

My hands, the sensation of sitting,

a book, so many books, a shelf that was too low.

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Detach

Take it apart, put it back together.

Put it in a jar, stick it on a shelf.

I disassemble before you arrive,

and reassemble when you leave.

and when you leave,

my glass chest is empty.

Put me on a shelf.

[classm-poems]

I was thinking of

sunshine and coffee and rain,

the weight of your gaze,

the curve of your waist.

All night and all day,

I try not to think of

the taste of your skin,

my hands on your face.

You pull me in close

I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe

the sound of my name

the scratches you leave

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The river tears through me,

whips me about,

under branches

that almost take me,

over rocks

that almost steal me.

I collect, we form shapes

together in shared fate,

breathlessly carried to our

inevitable end:

to tumble over rocks

and

fall.

[classm-poems]

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soft light

oh god oh god

intertwined legs

twisted shirts and soft skin

sunlight burns through your hair

pull me in

oh god oh god 

let me

take you away

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The road

Late at night, I pass through one ghost,

then another.

Each specter feels familiar,

familiar like on the cold white day he died.

His soul, left behind,

stuck to my own like burrs,

abandoned feelings

that weren’t my own,

memories that weren’t mine.

I remember his passing as my own,

his first broken heart

and his last.

His body breaking open

as the cancer inside him

blossomed

from a single seed, 

and tore through his skin.

Bubbling white gristle,

eating through organs

from the inside out.

The smell, the taste

of rotting flesh,

craterous tumors cracking open.

His throat, swelling shut.

In the present, mine.

My soul, what is left of it,

leaps from my body and runs, 

leaving me here.

I will run 

and follow it

wherever it goes.

Anywhere but here, 

in these memories

that aren’t my own.

[classm-poems]

Grief is not a poem.

It is endless, like death,

an experience that must be

lived.

Unlike you,

my dearest,

my heart.

My heart,

ripped

from my chest.

Endlessly.

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Cruise control, a mile a minute.

Concrete branches stretch over the road.

Ephemeral, endless.

A moment I can’t create.

Satisfaction that will never be mine.

Through the concrete forest,

high on a branch, I wave back.

Unrecognizable.

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Fresh summer, the windows down. My skin, your skin, your skin,  music I feel in my thighs.

Put your hand on mine. Another grabs both, holds them both, in her hands.

Squished between you. Summer sun, summer wind blowing in, knocking me down. Falling.

You both look me in the eye.

Falling. All at once, I know this is it.

I've never tripped into love,  not like this, so immediate, so sudden.

I smile, I try to memorize every part of this moment.

Sun and hands and hands and music and on the way home, wind whipping through my hair, you insist I sit in the middle.

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Hunger

like your lungs calling for air underwater

like your cold body screaming for heat

like gas scrambling into empty space

like when you touch me in the car

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I miss how Alex would wrap his arm around my waist and pull me up to kiss him. I miss the way he fooled when he thought I looked nice. I miss coming home and kissing him. I miss hearing him play video games in the background. I miss calling him as I drove. I miss him bringing home fast food and I miss his cooking. I miss grocery shopping so much. He had so much to share, so much knowledge and passion.

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Everything ends and everything dies, but the cruel irony is that grief does not.

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The idea that you could leave me again is horrifying. The idea that another partner could make you choose again.

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I used to tell him I believed

we were the same soul

trapped in different lifetimes.

Me, early in our lifetimes and

Him, later in our lifetimes.

In the end, he told me

he hoped reincarnation wasn’t real,

that he wanted this to be his end,

his final rest, his final lifetime.

He wanted to rest gently forever.

I am towards the beginning

and he is the end.

I have so many lifetimes

to look forward to

with him, as him, as me.

And I already know my end

and it’s not so frightening.

One day, I too, will rest gently forever.

[classm-poems]

When I️ close my eyes

When I️ close my eyes, sometimes still,

especially these days, I️ watch myself fall

into the shower wall, like it happened 

to someone else.

The way my lips felt

as they said “no” 

against hers.

I️ remember.

My heading hitting the wall,

arms fumbling against the tile and grout,

her 

on top of me.

I️ remember.

The light,

flickering.

I️ try to find the door.

The sound 

as she locked it.

We fight

pressed against the light switch,

flickering. Disorienting.

She throws me.

“I’ve never done this before

I’m not a lesbian.”

I️ tell her I don’t want to 

again

and again 

I push her away.

I️ run for the door. 

She’s there.

She pushes me into the shower.

I️ watch as I️ fall and hit my head.

She crawls on top of me.

I️ pull. I️ throw her.

I️ throw myself out the door.

Yellow lights, a loud laugh.

The party is normal.

10 months later, I️ am in bed.

Another girl, another ex, grabs me.

I️ tell her no. 

She grabs me,

pulling.

I️ say no, she laughs.

Yellow lights,

a loud laugh.

I️ watch myself fall, into the shower wall

like it happened to someone else.

It’s morning.

10 months apart, 

neither apologizes.

[classm-poems]

Without you, days and nights

are endless without you

to punctuate the time.

You used to fill my life

like sand in the cracks

but now time stretches on forever

without you.