A dryness invades
my body. Nearly touching the living room floor.
I can feel every tendon connected within me.
Open the window
and let the cold dawn bite our old skin.
My mom tells me not to breathe helium,
“It kills your brain cells.”
Our brains have been damaged in far worse ways.
You always had a way of convincing me to–
In the crumpled foil, I stare
at my folded reflection. Soft 6am August
sun bounces
off each wrinkle.
The blue and red shine colors my face purple,
the lines around my eyes deepen as I squint.
Look closer,
try to see through to the other side.
Thank you for these smile lines.
I think about asking you,
if it keeps getting harder to find the beauty in
a memory,
half overcome with static. Too full of pride to set it free.
The first flicker of light after a total eclipse.
Foggy windshields on the last
warm day. Sunrise painting the water orange and pink.
Do you keep my secrets like I’ve kept yours?
How heavy they are to carry.
The forgotten joy
of jumping in puddles, skinned knees, and gummy worms.
I can’t outgrow the fear of being in the dark–
alone.
Remember the pull of gravity?
Air leaks slowly out of me.
My lungs, burning. I can’t inhale.
Twenty-five years to prove my loyalty. I–
have never been good at leaving