we could all be in love is we all got real chill

I saw a rock,

shaped like a heart,

skipping across a lake—

like a girl on her way home.

Home,

where I never nap alone,

always waking with a dog, a cat,

or a man beside.

My sleepyheads, 

who never know hunger—

nor wonder if 2,200 sq. ft.

could stretch to hold one more.

happy baby pose

Press your forehead to mine,

squeeze my shirt between your toes,

gaze into my eyes until our souls

pinkie swear to meet in every life.

parasocial parasite

A round worm wriggles,  

its body stretched across 

the sidewalk’s still water,  

as if it knows its place  

is in warm intestines—  

like mine.  

Is it still a parasite  

without a host?  

Is "parasite" a word shaped by context,  

like how I am a wife,  

but when my husband dies,  

I’ll be a widow?  

Or is it a constant,  

like when my mother died—  

and I was still just her daughter?  

Perhaps I am not wife, widow, or daughter,  

but just another parasite

also seeking a home.

Grief/Relief

My mom died eight years ago,
from LMS. Leiomyosarcoma,
a word I learned when she said it on the phone.

"It's a rare cancer of the smooth muscles.
There are three types of muscles,
I learned this in my anatomy class.
Skeletal muscles move you—
running, typing, washing dishes.
Cardiac muscles make your heart beat.
Smooth muscles are involuntary, found in internal organs—
the uterus, digestive system, urinary tract, arteries, veins."

Perhaps she was psychic.

The cancer spread through her body in that same order.

It’s aggressive, and at diagnosis,
six months more of living was a miracle.
She lived two and a half more.

Strange how, since I was a child, I hated how she
was the type to try anything once,
disregard risk,
say yes when others would say no.
Couldn't she just be a regular mom?
But that’s probably why she lived so long.

She signed up for every clinical trial,
every experimental drug. She now lives on in scientists'
dataset, and maybe, somewhere, there’s a future
where a girl’s regular mom lives even longer

Because of my mom—
she was the type to try anything once,
disregard risk,
and say yes when anyone else would say no.
How could I still hate her, after that?

Symbiotic Spaces in Books Where We Could Both Reside

I don’t believe in twin flames

or soulmates,

but I believe in novels—

the kind set in outer space,

with alien casinos

on distant planets,

where a woman,

in a formal gown,

chases a younger girl,

a girl in trouble,

hoping to save her.

The woman tears the hem of her sequin gown,

exposing freckled, fragile legs—

legs that climb a lattice wall of flowers

and slip through a balcony window

of a high-rise villa condo.

Remember, this is an alien world.

A spaceship carried her here,

to rescue the girl

from an ancient cult,

once symbiotic creatures

implanted deep in the girl's belly.

After the parasite’s removed,

the woman wraps the girl’s torso

in the tattered tulle remnants

of her gown. Only then

does she look up at the sky—

the stars shining down blessings,

that she was saved. She was the plot all along.

Both will return to the home planet,

on the small spaceship,

together at last.

The back cover describes it as "a tale

of epic friendship."
I’m not sure about all that.

I don’t believe in twin flames,

or soulmates, or even epic friendship,

but I believe in a story like that.

Strange and Twisted Times.

Time, you are a strange thing,
Twisting the mind
Into shapes that contradict—
January feels like a year,
But the pandemic?
Only two years ago,
Though I know it’s been five.

Everything feels two years ago—
Even my mother's death—
She’s been gone eight years.
Last night, a friend sent me a screenshot
Of a Facebook post from sixteen years back,
And I still feel the splint in my rib
From laughing that night,
Taste the tequila puke I left
    In a Walmart parking lot.

        Back then, the world was both big and small— 
        Full of infinite possibilities, yet 
        I felt fine walking home— 
        Drunk and alone, in the dark night. 
        My trivial childlike faith,
        Thinking I’d become great someday 
        While already feeling untouchable— 
        Not a danger in sight. Time is a twisted thing.  

Now, I’ve been sober thirteen years,
This memory old enough to drive—
Drive all day, all night,
To the other side of the country,
Where this friend and her screenshot now live.

Time moves so fast, and so slow,
Once living truly begins. Time, 
both a thief and a healer,
you are a strange and twisted thing.

It's a good thing she wants to talk about feeling unwanted and throwing yourself at someone because I can relate.

She posts photos from her apartment
Filled with fragments of me,
Scattered like confetti as décor,
Lovingly sent in the mail, fading fast,
As I trace the edge of a sole card received,
And remember it meant something,
When I felt grateful for that little crumb.

Now, I order this last thoughtful gift for her—
The final one—
But I don’t think she’ll notice.
She’s surrounded herself
With other people,
More than I ever could.

It’s not that I no longer want
To be her friend,
But I’m tired of convincing her
To be mine.

I won’t be there when she finally sees—
If she ever does—
How I was consumed,
Then left behind,
Like the owl that devours its prey,
Spitting out bones,
My remnants on the wall,
While she was busy
Throwing herself at others,
'Cause she felt unwanted.

Yeah, girl, I can relate.