of words threatens to burst out of my mouth and I

restrain them in my throat. I want to ask if she’s still

proud of me, apologize for the way I abandoned my

feet after she left, but nothing sounds like what needs

to be said. So we stare, thoughtfully, condensation

surrounding us, a damp circle of everything we

would’ve shared if we’d recognized our last

conversation for what it was. White-knuckled grip

eventually fades into understanding, unclenching.

My grandmother only exists in the remnants

of thirst long enough for me to miss her,

which is to say, not long. Sometimes

we say goodbye to each other as

though it is a shared name. I call

it out to her almost violently

as she dissipates into

nothing.

PERSONAL BELIEFS

My grandmother speaks to me through

pennies discarded on cement.

The truth is not the truth until you say it

to the first thing you survived.

Joy is difficult to obtain

when you most require it.

If my depression answers to anything

it isn’t my reflection.

You can lose things

while holding onto them.

The symphony of childhood sounds best

when played in reverse.

Forgiveness is not enough if

_______________.

ECHO

in the attic of my adolescence

pigeons never stop cooing. baby

blankets and cotton candy are used

for insulation. i whisper your name into

the dark and it never thinks to come back.

THE RED ROOM

We walked into the red room together,

but did not walk out of it at the same time.

The red room pulsated around us, like the walls

of a hungry stomach.

& in the red room we held hands &

did not call it anything. & if you listen closely,

the red room still sounds like our small talk.

The red room still sounds like the stories I told

thinking they would make me seem

cool, like a girl that could learn how to give

a good kiss. & I visited the red room

with a man I could adore & hated

that the ghost of you was still lingering, trailing

your fingers along the walls as if it could

shrink the foundation, envelop me. & sometimes

I think part of me will always be in the red room

because the red room is where I realized that I was

a person worthy of love.

& now the red room is the red room

& I am loved but not by you & that is what I want.

The first time I ever left the red room

I thought you were going to save me from a life

of disappointment. The last time I left the red room

I felt lucky to have outlasted

what you put me through.

& I watched out of the corner of my eye

as the red room absorbed everything we ever did

inside of it, which still wasn’t enough.

& then the red room opened the windows.

& the red room let it go.