Keep This Place Beautiful

“Try, and promise you will I will not go if you’re still here The truth Is so depressing I will not go if you’re still here” - Brick + Mortar

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Things I Don’t Say to a Therapist.

how often i think about [_]

how last week crossing the street I wanted to [_] & close my eyes

how I pressed [_] against my forearm, called it both dull and sacred, [_] i took from someone else for safety

how scared i am to die

how scared i am everyone i love will die.

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I’ve specialized in [redacted].

I have to believe this time is different.

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There is a town in Germany that shares a zip code with a town in Texas like map twins.

I wonder if sometimes someone in a Saginaw suburb feels unspeakable grief for no reason when their German parallel loses their love. If it works both ways.

There’s a language to missing people, missing love, missing posters with blocky text. In the comment section, I hope you find your. Im still looking for. He was last seen in. Im sorry it ended this way. I hope there was closure. I hope you find answers. I hope you find peace. I hope you find. I hope you know. I hope.

I still look in the comments sometimes, the commiseration of those left to miss the missing, still in between not knowing and relief, and I’ve already been released.

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#keepthisplacebeautiful

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A List of Things Found (Not Comprehensive, Subject to Change):

A broken camera, several pairs of underwear, hope for love.

Spatula, kitchen knife, the memory of the dinners I ruined in blackouts.

Part of a mobile phone, 3-5 rubber gloves (once sterile, no longer), the image of black blood pooled on rocks.

A single crutch, a threadbare flag, an incomprehensible ache.

Broken tiles (3) in 1950s institutional green, a deep breath, the feeling of sunlight on my skin.

Boxing glove, pink balloon ("It's a girl!"), a promise whispered in my ear.

A lonely molded work glove, one (1) dead raccoon (probably), a slight knowledge of self.

MSU branded soft cooler, antique candle snuffer, a sacred place to unspool grief.

The cold smell of rotted wood and brackish water, a sadness for the domesticated remnants of yards eroding into the wild down the banks, a sinkhole in miniature.

Headless, shattered baby doll, Mardi Gras beads shaped like wheels, comfort from twigs and leaves tangled into my hair.

Tiny forests of moss, a ladybug, the gentle caress of a sun-warmed, floral breeze.

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I hope this email finds you

unwell

lost

alone

i hope this email finds you

unloved

confused

afraid

i hope this email finds you

unknown

despondent

ashamed

i hope this email finds you in time

just checking in

just wanted to ask...

just thinking of you!

just a mix of nothing deep

exclamation point so you know it's light

period, better not be too light

just, just this once

let there be justice

tzedek, tzedek tirdof

just this once

zochreinu l'chayim

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"silver strung guitars say / hear me when i call / hear me when i come in late / you're wide awake / i'm sorry is not enough / i'm sorry i'm not enough to stay"

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"

There's nothing to do here Some just whine and complain In bed at the hospital

Coming and going Asleep and awake In bed at the hospital

Tell me the story Of how you ended up here I've heard it all in the hospital

Nurses are fussin' Doctors on tour Somewhere in India

I got one friend Laying across from me I did not choose him He did not choose me

We got no chance of recovery Sharing hospital, joy and misery The joy and misery, the joy and misery

Put out the fire boys, don't stop don't stop Put out the fire on us Put out the fire boys, don't stop don't stop Put out the fire on us Bring your buckets by the dozens Bring your nieces and your cousins Come put out the fire on us

Vietnam fishing trips Italian opera Vietnam fishing trips Italian opera

I got one friend laying across from me I did not choose him, he did not choose me We've got no chance of recovery Sharing hospital joy and misery The joy and misery The joy and misery The joy, the joy, the joy, misery

Put out the fire boys, don't stop don't stop Put out the fire on us Put out the fire boys, don't stop don't stop Put out the fire on us Bring your buckets by the dozens Bring your nieces and your cousins Come put out the fire on us"

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Countdown 'til you come off your rails And it ain't going well You've been running up bills You had to cancel your cards for shooting out street lamps while shooting at stars Now your credit is falling

Heard it booming at parties, whispered in homes The pundits on the radio won't leave it alone I heard it once, heard it twice Heard it well enough to tell They say the mission to Mars, is destined to fail now

Climb down to the edge of your rope Got a letter 'bout a month ago from control They say we're coming down hard We locked our keys in our cars Or got booted at bars and now the movement is lost

So we blowing up God's phone Pray he get us off hold soon Bought our own space but our asses are frozen Blow enough smoke to punch a hole in the ozone And all you say is we should've stayed home

Fading, faded, we never made it, faded Traded for your replacement Faded we never made it Watchu tryna be lately?

Climb down to the edge your seat They say that viewership for launch is up by 50 this week We changed the format completely, cut the filler for meat It's just blood on your TV making killings for free The ticket lines are past the sign down at the end of the street Meet and greet, VIPs go a million a piece We delayed the show for entry and so expired on the lease Now we're gonna re-release it, T.B.D Change the title to Fuck You It's what you want it to be When you know it only pay to make nice Pack your shit and standby, please Your friends are trying to leave and get high

Countdown 'til you come off your rails They said the mission to Mars is doing pretty well I heard it once, heard it twice, I heard everybody tell They say the mission to Mars is destined to sell out

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Pesach, Jones County, Twilight.

What happened once upon a time, happens all the time.

The bakery, the deli, the way I don't notice bad things. The way all the 1994 teenage girls are so pretty, and so is the jell-o, all things are magic.

I am not yet cold all the time. The smell of the cleaning aisle makes my heart soar. I like to count the cracks and tiles, step carefully. I am obsessed with garbage disposals and death. I have watched the OJ Simpson chase, I have fallen in love with the fluffy hair of the kind looking woman on Headline news.

There are sand dunes on Garden Street and once I saw a skeleton, bleached white in the Florida sun. A little fox. This is where Mom had a heat stroke. This is where I remember blinding fear.

Sun has soaked into the ground and now heat seeps back into the twilight hours, not cool, but a loss of heat that sends a shiver over your arms anyway. The moon is eternal, even when it fragments.

How am I not the protagonist in my own narrative?

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It’s not waking up on the wrong side of the bed, it’s waking up in the Timeline for the Already Defeated.

[webkinzpossum]

my chronic illnesses are laughing hysterically

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No no no this is fine everything is fine

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The worst part about living with myself is that I kept all four of my wisdom teeth but never remember where I’ve put them, and for whatever reason they are all in separate locations. Surprise! Human tooth.

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Vignette 0.3

It takes a few hours after the call to figure out how to get to you. The ICU has rules, and we defer to authority.  Still, once I understand the rules, I am there, listening the machines beep and hum for half an hour, listening to your whimpers as you breathe for a tube (is it breathing for you? I’m afraid to ask.).  Occasionally your hand squeezes mine. I want to ascribe meaning to the feeling,  Some of the visitors lay hands on you and pray. I can’t, or don’t. I don’t think God is listening, but you might be, so my prayer is to whisper in your ear until the sympathetic-looking nurses shoo me away. I love you, I love you, I love you, over again, it is the only prayer I know right now, and in that dark room I can’t believe anyone but you hear me. 

On the third day, the tube is gone, and you say you’re melting, rotting, that you can’t live like this. I know that it’s medication, the trauma, your brain doesn’t work right, and probably won’t again, not unless they can manage the swelling and they haven’t yet, so I can’t explain that you’re not really rotting and have you understand me.

I say, your face looks fine, and touch your cheek.

God might not let me get away with this. 

But I know you can’t tell dying people that God isn’t listening, so I say, I will love you while you’re still here, and your hand squeezes mine again.

I love you is the only prayer I know, and Tuesday morning the call comes, I know the words coming through the phone, the words intracranial pressure and CSF leakage, but I can’t make them make sense, until I ask, are you saying…?

And they are.

I love you is the only prayer I know. It’s never going to be answered.