I buy all your favorite foods so I will be ready when you come home
because once I did this and you said “This is how I know you love
I go on long walks alone and think about a poem my friend wrote
that goes ”This is how you die by distance.”
I hum the sound of the dial tone under my breath.
I stare at my hands and wonder at their uses. I consider pawning
my thighs. I consider auctioning off my hip bones. I put my breasts in
a box on the top shelf of the closet. I do not need them now.
I think of all the things I have to tell you when I will see you.
Stories like: I just found out pumpkins are technically fruits
and Cary Grant’s first job was in a traveling circus
and Most mammals are born able to walk and learn to run within minutes, so we are not crazy for moving so fast.
This morning I wrote your name in the steam on my mirror, even though I knew it would fade within minutes
In my best notebook I wrote “I miss you” ten thousand times.
I wrote “I think I am missing one of my ribs”
I wrote “I envy the way leaves know exactly when to fall from the branches and when to come back in the spring”
I wrote “Everyone else isn’t you. It turns out that’s a huge problem for me.”
“I heard a joke once: Man goes to the doctor. Says he’s depressed, life is harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world. Doctor says, “treatment is simple. The great clown Pagliacci is in town. Go see him. That should pick you up.” Man bursts into tears. “But Doctor” he says, “I am Pagliacci.””—Robin Williams (via elphabaforpresidentofgallifrey)
“Whoever said that loss gets easier with time was a liar. Here’s what really happens: The spaces between the times you miss them grow longer. Then, when you do remember to miss them again, it’s still with a stabbing pain to the heart. And you have guilt. Guilt because it’s been too long since you missed them last.”—Kristin O’Donnell Tubb; The 13th Sign (via drownedcat)
“Johnny said once, Eating with someone is really intimate
and it’s stuck with me. So I decline dates at restaurants
because he’s right and it’s too soon and, anyway,
maybe I’ll hate how these long-necked boys
who don’t know how to hold a fork eat. I’ve written
a lot of things for him, Johnny, more than he knows about.
I am 22 now so naturally I miss everyone.
I am 22 so I roll my eyes when someone says love.
Dad has the air conditioner all the way up but I’m still
waking up sweating. My brother has taken to degrading
women in that casual way that boys do—flick of the shoulder,
dark-eyed, he is my father in miniature, but I love him,
as sisters do, even if I don’t agree with his mouth.
I wanted this poem to go somewhere important
but I keep looking over my shoulder. I hate mornings.
I keep spilling my guts out to strangers on the internet,
and this is not the first time I waxed my legs for a boy.
We’re all fighting over who we’re going to take home
and I’m still pretending I can play the clarinet.
Everyone keeps complimenting my nail beds.
Remember mood rings? Mine stays black.”—Kristina Haynes, “Johnny Said Once” (via metaphorically)
My father died on November 14th, 1995, when I was 14. Every day since the day he died I am one day farther away from him than I was before. This is the truest thing about me. It is the most important and worst thing to ever happen to me. It is me. My father died when I was 14. I will tell people this forever. It is the truest thing about me. I was 14 when he died. My father. I was 14.