eighteen in a room that won't stay still
I wrote a poem last spring
I write my birthdays a poem
I am trying to trap time.
I bring them to words, thinking somehow that will help me contextualize this affair
I start writing again-- the way people start counting backwards when something is about to happen, slowly at first, then all at once.
decorate metaphors and adjectives.
It softens the sharp edges
and sharpens the soft ones.
I lay in that disgusting bedroom, playing back my life in fragments-
my 16th in the school ground.
A mason is toiling through this afternoon
the low hum of the tv in the other room
the room turning that particular shade of raw honey
the clouds lining up in new ways
looking like they’re about to confess something
I still sing my favorite songs
I still wear my favorite shirt
I still pour ink over reveries
I start writing the way a window fogs
This day hovers in the air for days before arriving
Like heat that doesn’t break.
The fan turns lazily, pushing the same tired air around the room, everything feels suspended, my dusty notebooks, this half drunken glass of water, the reflection caught in the dark glass.
To hold onto the version of me that is already slipping away—
Like pressing flowers between pages
Knowing they will lose their color
I want to understand how a year can pass without asking permission;
There is something deeply ordinary about it
and that is what makes it unbearable.
And leaves like any other
In the way my thoughts linger longer than they should
In the way the sunlight leaves slower each day
In the way I keep looking at my own life
As if it belongs to someone else.
That 16tah summer was a dream
The fall of 17 hurt me softly
With the fan still turning above me
With the curtains breathing
With the light thinning into evening.
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