Disconnectia

© Ethan Sol Leach

[disconnectia]

How Not To Fall In Love

Take them on a date to buy sandwiches the shop has taken off the menu

Invite them to a club where you will not dance together

Play videogames where you live in separate houses

Take ugly photos of yourself and send them to them

Sleep next to them and hump their leg in your sleep

Rub their shoulders when they're sweaty and gross from the gym

Versuchen es eine sprache lernen zu liebe, mach es nie richtig

Smile or snort but never laugh loudly when they are funny

Try to persuade them to eat more vegetables

Don't make an effort to be attractive or sexy to them

Make stupid little models for them that hurt your hands

Send them memes you think will gross them out

Do a class where you punch and kick each other

Stand outside their house and panic about your emotions

Fall over because of your stupid joints when they bend you into your first dip

Miss 90% of the things they throw you and 60% of their puns

Annoy them by accident every visit

Threaten to kiss the food out of their mouth

Write stupid little poems that you never show them

Tell them "fuck you," as often as possible

Fail,

miserably,

over and over

and over again:

(You will love them anyway, because -)

(your tongues don't match, but your fingers do)

(you both carry broken things, jagged edges that almost match -)

(despite all of this)

(they laugh, call you back)

(smile, hold your hand, kiss)

(and sleep, occasionally,)

(next to you)

[disconnectia]

Decades of this; standing in the mud. Ankle, waist, shoulders. It rises and I have trouble standing, these days. I'm not attached to life, but it clings to me, its roots are buried deep in my clay. I listen to their slow growth, clicking softly just out of reach, and they listen to the water running through me. We are entwined, and would not move if the sea rose to greet us. Some days, darling, I do not notice if the traffic hasn't slowed. I would not fear if the sun never rose again. I would not question if my heart skipped a beat and sank beneath the ripples. I used to go too fast, at night, in the rain, pull my breaks on gravel and feel the slide like a spark of forgotten life. I used to walk with my eyes turned up and hope that something would knock them down. There have been times I have barely survived, held up only by these old roots, by torn wallpaper, by hot breath and dirty windowpanes, the ghosts from a paper cone.

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.

Forgive me, but sometimes, when my yoga teacher tells the class, "I want you to tell yourself something nice about yourself," I have a silent panic attack there in the dark, because all I can come up with is "I am still here," and I don't know if that is enough.

When it is too much I go to the empty fields, I go and I lay, and every spider decides I am a mountain to be climbed. I blow them away but they keep coming, and the fear never leaves me, no matter how many I find. If that isn't a metaphor for a broken life I don't know what it is. The world telling me I am not unwanted, but it's never going to be easy.

I don't know what easy is. I used to have recurring dreams; of flight, of the tenuous link between me and the ground as imaginary, if I can just believe in myself, and I try, over and over, and I fly - and am pursued for it; a freak, a commodity. Even in dreams I cannot escape myself.

[disconnectia]

I know that my body is holy, because I took it in a chokehold and still it carried me, even as i salted the garden, even though each psalm transcribed in my dna is slightly different to the last.

I held a final ceremony in the rubble, sang loud through the holes and cracks; hymns to lost love, prayers for the rain to hold off until the roof was repaired.

I know that my body is holy, because the only scars I bear were given to me, even those I chose, even though my skin doesn't quite know how to knit back together again in the same way.

I reinvented intimacy, rediscovered divinity as something I love, found reasons to live in the corner of a smile, the angle of shadow behind an ear, the sinuous curve of bicep to shoulder to neck with arms thrown over the head.

I know that my body is holy, and I want to heal loudly, from the deep parts of me all run through with wax, burning the edges even as the map forms across my skin with each year I persist, pushing up through concrete as ancient as that first sin.

So let's not get carried away; let's lay back, the hedges are heavy around us, weighed down with our secrets, and they are more constant than the heart.

[disconnectia]

there were bees on my nightie, when i was four; my mama dressed me sweet, second hand red leather shoes with bright buckles and honey loving bears across em; i don't wear nighties any more, but mama, i still have it, red and white. it feels like i'm lost, mama. it feels like i just walked too far away from you in the store and if i just keep running, engine wide open, feet squealing over cheap linoleum, you'll be round the next aisle. i dream, sometimes, of laying belly down and grass chinned, and pressing my hands in; a prayer, i delve under the deep green blanket beneath my body, dive slowly, discordant, see roots cut short. Mama, sometimes i dream of dying from this violence. abrupt. final. severe. i dream of your laugh, of darlings and dead names sung softly when i was so sad that all i could say was i wanna go home, i wanna go home. Neither of us ever knew what I meant, mama, and i know i can't tell you now but - i wanna go home - i want your voice and scent, the cat fur drifts in your sofa, the dust on your mantle, the nicotine in the air the filthy rumble of your laugh always when the jokes got most dark. mama, i miss your hugs, your endless weird knowlege, your cactus spines waiting to prick my bare feet, your calling the police pigs every time, your impatience for idiots, and your absolute burning hatred for pink.

there's green in my spine now, mama. all twisted through, it's all you, your legacy wrapped tight around every cell. you used to tell me my hands were little flames, my fingers green, and i love to prove you right. i never hurt anyone but myself, mama, and the fires i set burn out safely but my nerves disagree, at night and when the world is too much and when i'm sad and mama, mama, at those times when my fingers burn i only think one thing, on repeat, and i still don't know quite what i mean, but mama, i still wanna go home. i'm building a mani stone wall, mama, and i promise when i'm done i'll pass on the left side to find you. i can't stop things from growing mama, they take over my spaces, cleansing the air, regardless of my care; even the ones who are rootbound just like me, keep pushing out these new shoots, keep reaching for the sun. my jade plant fell down, mama, but now it's three foot tall again, and all it took was a little scaffolding, a little time. it had to grow new roots, and mama, we did it together, one day at a time. these green fingers couldn't help you, even entwined with yours, I couldn't keep you, but mama, i know you felt me there. im still here, mama, still rootbound and rocking, still whispering i wanna go home. still pushing out those new shoots, one tiny flame at a time.

[disconnectia]

I have no right to miss you

You have not gone away

But-- this self-imposed barrier

Which you do not reach across

-- is carved into my nervous system

and every time I think of you

It fills with static, with cold burning

The tingling hands and eyes

I don't think this thing

Ever meant as much to you as I

But-- nameless and sweet

It grew and grew; stretched out

-- a yearling reaching for your light

and regardless of what I want

It spread tender and strong

Through my every waking thought

Nothing is lost

Though something changed

But-- I want you to be happy

Loved and cherished and fulfilled

-- even if not by me

and I respect what you told me

That you can't handle polyamory

But gods, I wish I could tell you;

I miss you;

It stopped being a crush a while ago;

I want you to be happy;

I want to be yours;

-- Without making it your problem.

[disconnectia]

there is a memory, or several; blurred out and blurred together, neon-lit; that you might call dirty, unclean; money shifting hands, knees and hips bruised by morning; my voice roughened and coarse as the skin that touched mine; this memory of honest moments, honest work, of being seen; and yes, being useful, being used, willingly, wantonly; of gasping for something I don't believe in; of a few years of abandon; of becoming real; taking needles to the outer quad; of saving for surgery; waking waking waking; learning myself, loving myself; loving; in some strange way; each man whose name I didn't remember past morning. on the other side of the memory I stand; taller; stronger; freed from the weight of my chest; unburdened; nights dedicated to one consistent lover; occasionally a comet; and we breathe each others names; reverently, because we are holy; I know this; I baptized myself in alcohol; in smoke; in drugs; in sex and bruises and luck; changed my name; shaved my head; changed my body; became real

[disconnectia]

How strange it is-

now that you are gone

(in some ways, you never leave)

-to open a box of remnants

(the remnants of your life)

that are somehow your memories

and not mine

I do not recognise this girl-

in your passport photo

(black and white)

-younger than I am now

(this print older than me)

who went to different places

I've never seen

[disconnectia]

it's in the space zipped up

at high tide

with fingers under the chin

and the way we pluck

glasses from sleeping faces

things we don't like from one anothers plates

it's something that

burns, bright before embers

grows, sprout into dappled shade

and the way we don't notice

as silver streaks our temples

and the map forms around our eyes

it's hidden inside

the curl of your tongue when you say my name

the thread of you that thrums through my blood

and the way we move

around, in sequence, call and response

inhale, exhale, our own murmuration

it's in the way

you're my first thought in the morning

grace given for my grumpiness, or pain

and the way without intent

you ensure I can eat, or sleep, or move

and my sangfroid glows only if you see a wasp

it's something growing

winding through our life, weaving us

until the taste of flowers is everything

and the simple fact

that we never need anything more

than this; whatever it is, wherever it is

[disconnectia]

some things seem eternal-

the way his fingers slide into my hair,

stealing my breath, stolen right back,

the way, at night, we are a shoreline

together, then apart

not unraveled, then; remade

some things may fade-

the copper in his dark hair, and mine

the strength in our limbs,

perhaps, even, the memory of a clocktower,

a sunset, a chill breeze;

the beginning that wasn't

whatever our future holds,

cupped, delicate, sheltered from sight;

I hope it is always we,

I cannot wait / I would wait forever

[disconnectia]

There is a room in Edinburgh I never left

A nest in the corner the nurses allowed

The machines, your breath, the cold

If anything could make me pray it would be this

That you did not know

That you were not there

And now there are things that send me off

Visions and sounds and

Hands, clasped, for the last time

When does this stop

When do I leave

The room, the floor, your hand

We are both gone, but I remain

It's been five years

Heart still races after you

A sight

A sound

A name-

A voice whispering as you left my arms

There is a room in Edinburgh I never left

[disconnectia]

The needle doesn't contain thread

And yet I picture it

Slowly pulling me together

Or perhaps embroidering

Florals and curls and bees

Trailing dashed lines like the nightie I wore

When I was small and soft

Before I was lost

Before I hit ground;

There are no gods here

We are self-made

Sewing ourselves together

Embellishing ourselves

With queer joy

Gold or red thread, scars shining

Silver or flushed or bronzed

Or white as the snow

We piled over traumas

Not to hide or hush

But to rest, to restart;

To await our spring

Some things stop festering

In that cold blanket

And others can gradually

Unfurl - - -

Into something more like

Strong roots

Roots that know to spread

To avoid the things that bring

Rotten fruit; instead

Our vines grow together

Threaded through and through

With joy;

Queer

Lush

Powerful

And true

[disconnectia]

were we all so caught up in our heads

back then? as to touch, and take

and not see no

under the pool table with the night

a blanket nailed down to my skin

in the back of a kitchen, after close-down

boys with hungry hands and eyes

too dark to see-

and caught, bruised stuttering

no- a scar, unearned and jagged

raised, swollen, desperate

i lost count before i learned

the map of things i did not say

dragged across and within

is as real as those i did

in our palimpsests, did we all burn

back then and there

was the best part of us rewritten

again and again for that use

did we come undone-

and when, exactly, did we find

all our pieces at last and gather

tattered along the way

a treasure map to be reborn

[disconnectia]

I am addicted to your existence, breathlessly waiting for the next hit, fanned in my face by the beating air beneath your wings while the hedges are frothing around us; this mythical event is engraved into my heart, or written perhaps, a poem-bandage, sealing cracks with ink and wax. You have no idea of all the things that have happened to me, but we can survive, each sunrise is invocation, even when everything around us is falling apart; you are how the wind blows, low and sweet, and when I first took in this air a voice in my chest I had long thought dead began to sing. There is a metaphor, somewhere, in the shadow beneath your cheekbone, the curls at the nape of your neck; something poignant and nakedly true, something that could break me, but carries me softly through dappled light, stroking my hair, telling me we're all right. And I know, I know, as the leaves fall, and we curl together for warmth, that we are dying together here 

It sneaks in, red as the stitches I use to repair my clothes; I cannot break free. In the morning the sky breaks the news blazing bright and wide and whispering, but when I look at you the voice in my chest sings in a language I'd long thought dead.

Fingers interlaced, under the blankets, untethered, I spin out, into the mattress, your breath the rising tide. Autumn has come, suddenly the trees become thin, standing over their golden hoard, mornings bruised, hungover, the stars at night bleary through turgid clouds, whilst in my chest a dent forms in the shape of your elbow. Sand has eroded the walls of this transitional house, pouring endlessly through the cracks.

And I know, I know, as the leaves fall, and we curl together for warmth, that we are dying together here.

[disconnectia]

to the memory of who we were

there was something fragile about the way we spoke to one another, grown up under that 28, fearful and courageous, something tender and new and pale, fresh grass, a spring sunrise, all pastels and bruises

we'd sneak around in the wee hours, but hold hands in public, trick each other into honest emotional speech, kiss noses, swap clothes, invent our own languages, write sappy letters and cover them in different lipstick kisses

i keep them in a wire box, more like a cage

[disconnectia]

when I am most empty and touch starved I think of him there

in his garage in the cool dark

slowly fading

I wonder idly how long it took

I expect he didn't manage to break his neck

the quick snap

no, it would have been the slow fade

I wonder if he regretted it as his throat constricted

i think of him there

in his garage in the cool, quiet dark

the cool, quiet dark

a slow fade

[disconnectia]

pour your laughter into me

we'll map its path, messy and sweet

follow it

find the cracks of me filling up

cup those fragile parts in our palms

keep me close, hold me, protect me

oh please, take me apart, keep me, all of me

spread joy over the marks of the past

paste me back together; i was undone by you

unspoken prayers your eyes are candles

incandescent, your light blinding

binding, binding, benediction, sweetness unearned

i will lay hollow boned, becoming filigree beneath your hands

slow and lingering; incandescence

every look is sunrise, sunlight, breaking over me and gilding me

all my rough edges burnished with delicate care

this is fervour, nonsense, rusted sounds and shapes

delirious reverence filling me thick and golden

lashed and flayed in light

there is a timelessness here between us; shared breaths, beating hearts, warm skin

the shape of your smile is contentment, covenant,

sanctuary

[disconnectia]

curve of the soil soul sole the earth is here she is coming to meet me and then will the cloud come down too to drown two lungs wrapped in bone and meat will I sink into the yellow field and grey water will I sink into the roots of the plants or the earth or the cloud will I sink drinking and dying and dreaming of the graves the heart holds close don't forget don't forget your faces carved deep your voices vibrate gently beneath breastbone coarse as it sticks to the skin above and each breath a shallow agony here beneath everything behind eyes and mind I know you all I won't forget you I won't forget the way your laugh and your knee your beard your smile your moustache and I won't forget you you were each so kind and loss is a cut my scars gnarled now no longer smooth white lines there's something broken in the way the skin knits back together not like those first scars you helped me bathe in the bathroom where we made the rainbow melting plastacine radiators