these new meds

make me feel worse.

i don't want to get up

or move and

i feel so numb and

dulled and even

visiting with friends and

talking with family and

playing games and

doing things i'd normally

find fun, i'd normally see as

reprieve from the

numbing ache of

depression--all of it

is clouded and dulled and

subdued and it's no longer

reprieve. it's the sluggish forward

stroke of an arm through water

in an indifferent but desperate attempt

not to drown.

to not get

pulled beneath the

waves while struggling to

even move my lungs to breathe

and struggling to do even

the small things keeping me

alive--it's hard. i have to keep

moving, but it's so hard

to gather up the

push. these meds don't help,

i don't think. but neither does the pain,

which only

increases with the more

i do. but i can't stop moving

lest i

drown.

i can't stop moving or

i'll drown. i have

to keep moving

or i'll

drown.

(i gotta keep going, you hear?)

he haunts me!

i am torn apart

and cracked wide open

by his overwhelming presence

that clings to

my side. he towers

over me in a

desaturated red glow

and i've tried

drawing him, as if to set him free,

as if to separate him from me, but

he only clings closer and pulls

me beneath the water,

trying to drown me. his hands

grope along my body

and i scream and cry and

wish i were dead. i am

only a child. i am only

a child. i beg and plead

and ask this not to be real

and then i wonder

if it even is, or if this is

merely my brain trying

to process my (yet)

(unfounded) fears. i

try to write poems

about him, and i

draw him, as if he

will leave me that way. i

haven't seen him in years. i see

him now as he was

when i was nine,

ten,

eleven,

twelve,

thirteen. supposedly

he is now living his

best years, wrinkled and sad

and looking sickly and pale.

i wish i could erase him from

my mind forever. i want him gone

and gone and gone and gone.

i don't want to know if he

did those things when i was

a kid. i don't want to know

what he did or why or what

he said or when he did things and i

don't want to be this confused

anymore. he was gone !

he was gone in my head--

an afterthought, a last line in a poem and

the last words to an answer.

yeah, he's my--

he's my--

i don't want to say it! he was

gone! he was gone! i want

him gone again, and i--

i'm sobbing, clutching my head

in my hands.

why would i do this to myself?

why would i say that, yes, he

might have--probably did--could

have--would have--did those

things to me,

a child,

a child,

a child. why would i

forget,

only

to argue with myself

in disbelief later. why would i

hide this from myself,

if it even happened, and why

would i let myself

hold such disbelief in it?

why this

war?

(i want him gone already. can he)

(please be gone again)

(please? please--please could he)

(be gone again? make him)

(leave)

when we lived with him,

i woke up very early each day.

in the mornings, to pass the time,

since i was afraid of being alone with

him when no one else was awake,

i would read alone in my bed for hours

until someone else woke up, too.

every morning, while it was just him and

i awake in the house, he would watch the news

and eat cornflakes and drink orange juice and

read the newspaper. i was hungry, of course, at this

hour—i was a growing child—but i wouldn’t stir from my bed

except to pick up a book and to

turn a page

and another

and another

and so on, until someone else woke.

when he got up from the table, though, i would hold my breath. he was

three rooms and a hall away, but i could hear him,

somehow. i would hold my breath. if i heard

the clinking of his silverware to his bowl, he was

taking his dishes to the sink. if not, he was headed straight

for the bathroom. either way, he would

inevitably come back down the hall,

flip-flops sounding strangely across

the wooden floor in his slow, steady gait.

i would have slipped my book under my blankets and

turned slightly onto my side by the time he reached the hall,

my movements silent in practiced ease. my eyes would have

been closed not even a second later, my breaths

carefully evened out into those mimicking sleep.

as he moved down the hall towards our room,

the room with my siblings and i, i would clench a hand into

a fist beneath my blankets, along the

spine of my book beside me, and i would focus

on the

sound

of the

whirring

fan

above

our

heads,

even as he came closer.

he would stand at the open doorway to our room and

stand

there

for

m

i

n

u

t

e

s.

i would keep breathing, just the same, just as evenly, just as

methodically as i always did in these moments.

sometimes i still wake up

paralyzed

by the

sound

of the

whirring

fan

above

my

head,

when i eat

this meal, i’m

supposed to be

thankful.

when i eat

this meal, all

i feel is i can’t breathe—i—

i can’t—i can’t breathe, i—

as he sits beside me, i feel

this feeling subside. one

must breathe, after all.

i must, to survive (him).

each bite is

torture. each movement is

calculated, tense,

pent-up energy. but i

have to appear

relaxed. fine. okay. it’s

what i have to do (to)

(survive). he watches me eat.

i feel like i could die, i think, stuffing

down a bite of turkey. i hate it, so much.

it doesn’t even taste awful—just—i—i—

i can’t stand it—i—i can’t—

he makes me take some of the cranberry sauce.

it’s sour. the stuffing eases it, some, but i

have to mask the expression of me about

to throw up from the texture and i

have to swallow this bite hard. i have

to keep it down. he makes me eat

the slimy green beans. there’s

weird stuff on them, making them

too salty. they’re a bit limp. they fall

apart beneath my fork. i shovel them

into my mouth. he watches me eat. once

all this is done, i take a long, long, long

drink of water. i turn to that

buttered roll on my plate, and i

savor each bite. when i ask for another, he

says, “after some more turkey and green”

“beans, maybe some more stuffing, too,”

“and if you’re still hungry, then sure.” i say

nevermind. i have to wait until

everyone else is done eating

to be excused. he

watches

me

sit

there. he’s smiling wide.

there’s a yellow light and

it’s too hot and

very cold, all at once.

i’m frozen in place,

grimacing in pain,

stood to one side and

unable to move.

he stands a few feet away,

deceptive smile in place.

“excited?” he asks, looking

to me. i quickly pull a smile

across my lips.

“sure,” i say. “you know what

“i like.” he doesn’t. he doesn’t.

he doesn’t. but i don’t

dare say otherwise. i move

robotically to the dining

room, sit in my seat

(always beside his)

(always in reach of a punishing)

(hand. a punishing kick.)

i sit in my seat,

sat on my hands. i stare at

the table—think to myself,

i should probably offer to

set the table. i feel like i’m

going to die, sitting here, waiting,

but i don’t get up. i might

break something if i try

to set the table. so i just

wait. back is ramrod straight.

breaths are hardly there. eyes

trained on the moving grain of

the table. at least at my aunt’s,

she begrudgingly makes me

mac and cheese alongside

the traditional thanksgiving dinner.

i hate eating in november, i think. he always

makes me eat the driest turkey

and the slimiest green beans and

the sour cranberry sauce and i can

only have one buttered roll. and i

HATE EATING STUFFING. i could die,

i think, if he makes me eat

one more thing.

he might kill

me if i don’t,

though.

he finally calls me to set the

table. i go into the kitchen,

feeling like every step is one closer

to death. i ask what’s for dinner, so

i know what to grab. “turkey,”

he grins, “and green beans, with stuffing.”

i nod. “your favorite,” he says

with a laugh. i laugh emotionlessly

along with. i grab enough plates

and enough silverware. i lay out the plates

like he instructs, and i place the silverware

just how he likes, except for

at my place, which he allows, only because

he makes fun of me each night for it anyways. i go back into

the kitchen for the potholders. when i

pass by him, my

breath doesn’t come out

on the exhale. i

can’t breathe. something always holds me

back from breathing in his

presence, and i—i—i—

i don’t breathe—i don’t

breathe, i don’t—breathe, i—

i can’t, i can’t, i—i don’t breathe, i—

i grab the potholders and move

away from him. he says something,

laughs. i laugh along, having not heard,

but his tone indicates i should

laugh. so i do. next i get drinks. i

refill his, not breathing as the

water fills his cup. it’s

hard to breathe on my

way to setting his cup down at

his place. when i finish with the

table, i sit at my place,

sat on my hands. back

ramrod straight. eyes on the

moving grain of the

table. breathing hardly

at all.

i mourned you

before even knowing you

were dead. i talked with myself

in the past tense

for hours

about you. i grieved

the fact that i know you

hated me even in

your very last breath. i

cried and cried and cried and

i turned my music up loud

to drown out the thoughts--

my brother is dead, my

brother is dead, my brother

is dead; a mindless loop,

a quiet repetition

that opened a yawning

cavity inside me

at the thought of going on

while you couldn't. while

you weren't.

i woke up this morning

to find you were

alive--had made it back home

in the dead of night.

i see you come down the hall

in your baggy clothes

with your messy hair

and dark undereyes,

and while i know you're alive,

my only thought is that you

aren't. that i already mourned you,

that i already came to terms with

the fact that you hated me to your dying breath,

with the fact that i would

never hear you again

and never have the opportunity to

see your smug smile once more. the

thing is--i still don't believe i have

those things. you still hate me.

you say you always will.

you don't smile at me--haven't for

years. i've been mourning you all that

time, but last night i truly

thought you were dead. that

was a different kind of grief.

still, when i look at you,

i just see a ghost. i don't know how

to stop mourning your death. i

don't know how to not think to

myself

my brother is dead, my brother is

dead, my brother is dead.

there's a memory, buried deep

somewhere. i'm not sure where.

in the memory (as fractured)

(as it is), i've been

left behind in the

dark. i am terrified of the

dark. i won't be caught

dead in the dark. whoever has

left me behind

in this memory

knows that. i know that

they know. and, yet, the

only thing going through

my head in this

memory--aside from the panic

tearing at my skin and the

suffocating (other) feeling that

is swallowing me whole and

has me choking back tears and

holding a hand over my mouth

to keep quiet--are the words from

the person who's left me

behind: "don't be dramatic,

it's just the dark--it's childish and

stupid of you to be

so afraid of this." i have been

left behind as a

lesson, of some sort. i

do not know how long i'm stuck,

alone, in the dark, but i know

i get out, at some point, breathless

and searching for the arms of

the authority who decided

i needed the lesson. their arms

are not welcoming. their arms are not open for me. they ask me,

"now, was that so bad?" and in this

memory, i know that if i say

that, yes, it was that bad, i may get

put back in the dark again.

so i shake my head

in the memory and i

close off my expression and i

separate from myself for who-

knows how long. the memory has

many duplicates, adjusted over

time and different in each but

somehow still the same--the

same fears and hurts and the

same type of words and the

same sort of separation from

myself afterwards. i am still

afraid of the dark.

he’s golden like six pm april evenings

where the sun crests over the hill and

peers between the trees and bathes everything

ethereal and yellow and warm. his hair is

curled and tightly spun and it’s always so, so

messy and it makes me feel a little silly to think

about it. when he turns his head i catch a

glimpse of silver and, man, if my breath

doesn’t catch in my lungs. his eyes are

so pretty in the way that i can’t

remember what color they are, but i just

know that my memory of them saw them as

beautiful—i know in the way that i’d know

my mom’s voice anywhere, in the way i’d know

my best friend’s humor, in the way i’d know if i was

making my chocolate chip cookies right or not.

he’s golden like six pm april evenings and yellow

sundresses and worn yellow linoleum and

he reminds me of the earth like the way the

sun filters through the trees or the way the

fading daylight pierces through the windows and

passes through the ivy and ferns. he’s golden golden

golden and i think that i’ll always associate this

with him.

he’s tousled and messy and so, so, imperfect—

he’s tried so hard, had to work so far, and

he’s come so far, he’s grown so much, he’s

overcome it all, and he’s so, so sweet, and the

way he thinks makes sense. they say he’s weird,

they say he’s odd, but, man, if i don’t feel like

we connect so right. he’s imperfect and

he might be odd but i quite like him this way and

i feel it wouldn’t be the same if he was any

different.

he’s golden, he’s silver, the sight or thought of

him makes the breath in my lungs catch,

he’s so pretty and he’s so beautiful and i wouldn’t

change him for anything, he makes sense to me

and everything clicks and he’s golden golden

golden. he doesn’t like me and i like him and i’ll

never get beyond this point because

it’s just eight short weeks before we part for

good and i couldn’t take it if it all made sense

before it blew up in our faces. but he’s

golden, like six pm april evenings where

the sun comes rushing through the windows and

breaks through the ivy and ferns to bathe

everything in its path warm and yellow and

ethereal. he’s golden. he’s like that

and i’m just a girl, caught in the golden

sunbeams and caught with my mouth

wide open in awe, staring up

at it all bathed warm and yellow and ethereal—he’s

golden, golden, golden.

i hope no one ever makes

him feel like he’s not.

On a strange impulse,

I wave a knife near my dog's face.

He doesn't flinch or even

acknowledge the knife. He only looks at me

with horrible, trusting eyes.

His tail wags and I am disgusted.

I am ashamed of myself

for being capable of great violence.

More so, I am ashamed

of this human capability

to even consider harming him.

christmas lights reflect

an autumn brown, gone too soon

ceiling lights defect

on a winter afternoon

sheets of ice glazing

against the classroom windows

with small arms raising

paper snowflakes, on tiptoes:

childhood-snowstorm crescendoes