Sidewalk impressions

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I run down Nebraska every day 
Cross Purdue and Colby and Federal
Stop for a breather at Barrington
And pick my way across the lumpy
Root-risen ground by the skate park.

And I wonder, if I ran this route 
One million times 
Would the sidewalk even know?
Surely, yes.

Each time my foot strikes the cement 
It leaves an impression
A thousandth of a millimeter-
A quick kiss in the concrete.

So if I ran this every day
For the next 1,000 years
You would know,
Right? 

Hm. Maybe not.
It could be the other way around.

The sidewalk leaves 
A thousandth of a millimeter 
Impression 
On the sole of my shoe
With every lung-burning, stomach-churning
Stride that I take.

Until one day, 
I need new shoes.

Don’t Pick Up

Poetry 
When you call someone 
And they don't pick up,
Aren't there just two reactions?

Relief or frustration. 

Some people I am just calling
Because I think that is what I'm supposed to do.
And if they don't pick up, it's like a win
Because they can at least see that I tried - 
I tried to connect with you, but you didn't pick up. 

So it's not my fault.

And I don't have to have a phone conversation, 
Which can be exhausting and alienating. 

So I'm relieved. 

But some people I call
Because I've been thinking about them for days. 
I've been thinking about what they would say 
In this moment.

I've been thinking about what they wouldn't say, too. 

I'm calling you because I've been trying to be your voice
But I am not your voice. 
I've been trying to not need you. 

So I call you.
And on the third or fourth ring, I imagine you
Glancing down at your phone
And hitting the button that makes your phone stop ringing
Without making it seem like you ignored my call. 

Hi you've reached Danny, I can't take your call right now—

I thought we were going to talk. I think about the conversation we would have had.
I think about all the people I haven't picked up for.

Tired

Poetry 
Last night I had a dream
Where I was in the Olympics,
Repping the U.S. 
In breath holding.

I was in a pool with an attendant
Who would accompany me under water.

First round - the warm up. 

The attendant attaches
A small weight 
To my waist 
And I sink about three feet
Underwater.

I am holding my breath.
In my dream
I am holding my breath.

The panicked pressure starts to build 
Like a lead balloon inflating 
In my chest.
All I can think about is 
Taking a breath.

I tap the attendant 
And he cuts the weight
And we swim to the pool surface.
And I take an indulgent breath.

Second round - I know
I have to hold it longer.

I take big, heaving breaths 
I feel the attendant 
Fasten a larger weight
Around my waist.

3 - 2 - 1
A loud beep and for a split second
I see the bottom of the pool open up
To reveal a deeper level.

The attendant and I sink 
Now about nine feet underwater.

I am holding my breath 
And staring at the twinkling, blurry blue
Around me.
Willing myself not to think 
About oxygen. 

I tell myself breathing is an option
And so is pain.

It is not required. 

Until it is.

I tap the attendant
After what feels like a crushing eternity
And we swim to the surface.

I am already a little disappointed
I didn’t hold it for longer.
And I am tired.
So tired.

I wake up this morning
And drudge through my day 
Tired. 

So tired.

To All the Super Freaks

Prose

Five years ago, I told myself I didn’t want to see people from high school. I wasn’t ready. It would have been our five-year reunion.

I told myself that I would wait until the 10-year. By then, I would certainly have a job that everyone would be envious of. I would be a doctor, a CEO, a scientist, an artist. I would have a husband and a life that made me too busy to care what they thought. I would be a completely different person from the girl who could barely make eye contact with people in the halls.

Well, five years have passed and I am just another cog in the corporate machine. I am a changed person, but not a different person.

I have grown up a lot. But I can still feel the roots of insecurity tug at my guts every time I consider going to the reunion. Roots that have taken a concrete hold in the soils of my psyche. Roots that were watered with name-calling, sunned by shame, and fertilized with all the bullshit of the bullies who made me afraid of my own sexuality.

Hey super freak!

I hope the laughs were worth it. You made me feel like dying. I dreaded coming to school because of you. I dreaded liking boys because of you. I hope that you will feel the same level of shame you inflicted on me.

I hope your dick gets caught in a wood chipper.

Now that I’ve said that, I want to talk to those who my heart has reached for the most. The girls and boys who are feeling ashamed for wanting to feel alive. For wanting to be touched. For wanting to be seen and loved. You do not need to feel guilty for letting your body take the reins, for once.

Your body. It is so incredible. It does everything it can to keep you alive. I cannot say the same for my brain, my thoughts, my feelings. But my body. It wants me here.

There is no greater feeling than letting go. There is no scarier feeling than letting go. The un-gravity is unnerving and the wind rushes past you in the wrong direction. To unsaddle the body from the brain and let it out into the world is reckless relief. And it’s okay.

To all my super freaks: I see you and I love you. I don’t blame you for wanting what you want. I don’t hate you because they hate you. I don’t judge you for being young and alive. I don’t argue with your reasoning.

I hope you know you are going to be fine. And there will be wood chippers waiting for all the people who try to make you feel otherwise.

The Antidote

Poetry 
Why am I so hard on you?
Because I am hard on me.
And me doesn’t like to hear it from me,
Doesn’t like to believe it could be me.
So me puts it on you. 

I put it on you
Like a dark cloak
Made of mud and gum 
And melting molasses.

“Why is she like that? 
Why can’t she just stand up for herself?
Why is she so insecure?
She’s just doing it for attention.
She’s pathetic.
I hate that she’s like that.”

I hate that I am like that.

But I am trying to be 
More impeccable with my word.
Inflict no harm with my thoughts and speech.
Communicate with the intention of love.

Murder the fear 
That has wallpapered my mind 
For too long. 

Because when I think those thoughts about you
I am poisoning us both. 
Love, forgiveness, and empathy 
Are the antidote.

16 Screws

Prose

It’s weird. I’ve talked to you more in the past week than I have the past six months. Getting an uninitiated text from you was a strange occasion.

I guess that’s what happens when you have nothing but 18 hours of TV, time, and self-administered pain meds.

She called me on Tuesday. The way she began the conversation had me concerned. Dancing around the subject for a little too long.

“He finally went to the doctor. His sister made him promise, so he finally did it…they took an MRI and found that his vertebrae had fused together…he couldn’t lift his head at all, pain was too much…Dr. Ostrup said he could perform the surgery this Friday…they haven’t decided if they’re going in through the front or the back…there are the usual complications and risks, and then there are others. Like C5 Palsy, which makes it so you can’t lift your arms…yes, he’s going to do it…okay, love you too.”

Friday arrived unceremoniously – or as unceremonious as a Friday can be. People are always in good spirits. Always like to talk about how it’s Friday. What else can you say?

She sent us updates throughout the surgery and the recovery. She was our eyes and our worries. She was our telescope into your fragile universe, our cardboard tube into your imaginary world, hanging on a thread as thick as a spinal cord.

I don’t love that you had to get that surgery. But I did love how much you talked to me. I loved the neediness of your conversations. The sentences that lasted just a beat extra because you didn’t want to hang up. The jokes—self-conscious at first—lumped in a silly mass on top of the connection that had always been traced there but never filled in.

The surgeon put 16 screws in his neck to give the vertebrae room to breathe and move. To take the pressure off. 16 screws!

When he came home, I was there. I hugged him gently and rushed to grab a cold Coke and straw from the kitchen.

You shuffled your way across the family room, briefly brushing by the hellos and how are yous. You were on a mission to the sun. I could tell that you had been thinking about this moment for a while. As soon as you sat down, time slowed for you. And the buttery warmth of the Autumn sunshine fell upon your face.

Dissolved

Poetry 
When I try to put my mind around you
It’s like dropping a sugar cube 
Into water.

I just want to taste your point of view.

I want your sweetness to stain my perspective.

But it’s totally not fair 
To use you like that. 
Because what do you get out of it?

Dissolved? 

Still, cube after cube 
In they go. 
Until it’s not sugar dissolved in water.
It’s sugar absorbing water. 

It’s not even water. It’s just you.

Trash Day

Poetry

You are my Wednesday.

You are the metal clang,

And the slams that echo in the alley

At six in the fucking morning.

You are the sour, dour odor

That sighs over the neighborhood.

You are all the things I don’t need

All the carrot stems and fish skins,

And salted tissues.

You are on your way out

But you will be back in a week

To take more things from me

That I decided I don’t need.

It’s not what you say

Poetry 
It's not what you say,
It's what you don't.

What are we doing here?
Was that another year?

I'm sorry I can't decide.
I'm sorry I need your time.

I'm just afraid of making that leap.
I'm just, afraid. 

I know that you would be relieved
If I told you that I believed

In people's ability to change
And gracefully rearrange

All of the habits we have grown
In false secrets we don't own.

But I don't think I believe.
I cannot give you that reprieve.

Not yet - at least... My dear,
My soul feels full, this year. 

And I am trying to see it
To feel it and to breathe it.

To want what I've got
And not pine after what's not

Mine or not going to be
Mine for eternity.

Okay, I think that's enough
My now, my comfort, my love.

The night I met you

Poetry 
Midge and I had taken some mushrooms.

She was preoccupied with a jar of peanut butter 
And I was moving on the grassy dance floor,
Sneaking sips of vodka-Redbull from behind the DJ booth.

I knew the DJ. I think he liked me
In a cute, early 2000s movie kind of way.

At the office, he would show me music, 
Tell me how surprised he was to find out I smoked cigarettes.
And we would blush wildly
At the red-hot silence that squatted in between warm, flighty conversations.

I still get a little nervous thinking about it.

You came up to me and asked if I wanted to dance.
It felt like just us—
Except for moments when I caught the DJ's eyes
He watched us dance, moving closer and closer.

The night I met you, I had already given away a few pieces of my heart
Slowly and carefully, wrapped in light pink tissue paper
Tinged with cigarette burns.

But you came in and took it,
Unwrapped it,
And started to give pieces back to me.