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Description
you are seven when your heart breaks for the first time.

they were usually careful, quiet, waiting until you and your sister were SOUND ASLEEP
before the disagreements started. they loved you, you know, your mother with her copper-
on-fire hair and your dad with his warm hands.

your sister's asleep but you’re so excited for the SUN to come up :: you want to drag your little
table outside and sell lemonade, pour the sour-sweet sun into someone’s cup for a quarter.
maybe, maybe if you’re QUIET, you can make your first batch now. it’s 10 PM, but you can
leave it in the fridge.

the stairs creak slightly beneath your gently chunky legs, and you think you’ve been FOUND
when you hear voices, sounds. mama’s going to send you back to bed with a pat to the tush,
your lemonade will have to wait till tomorrow––

but even though the TALKING gets louder, no one comes.

curious feet carry you forward, to the corridor, the hallway. you hide in the shadows of
your mama’s favorite cuckoo clock, similar to the way he sits in his house, waiting for the
right time. your glee at hearing your parents plan SECRETS, trade stories into the night melts like
wax into CONFUSION, into surprise.

mama’s crying. she’s yelling at daddy and he’s yelling BACK, and you don’t understand
the dynamics of marriage yet but you know you’re supposed to LOVE it.

‘ i wish i could just LEAVE right now ! ‘

‘ i won’t miss you. ‘

you are seven when you feel alone for the first time.

he’s back by 8 AM that next morning, calling you rosy and kissing the tiptop of your head.
you don’t WANT to sell lemonade anymore, but he helps you squeeze the lemons, draws
pretty bluebirds on your sign. mama laughs, crosses the t’s and dots the i’s you forgot.

you are seven when you learn that your heroes are only happy sometimes. when you crawl
into bed that night you pretend like you’re not listening for another fight. sissy, ten and proud,
knows nothing.

you are seven when you keep your first secret. it quiets you.

______

you are thirty when you meet her, you are thirty when you hate her, you are thirty when you
love her. you are thirty and you know better than anyone that happiness is a SOMETIMES thing,
made for whenever you get the chance to fit it into you schedule. you don’t know how
you’re supposed to fit her in — her, with her freckled back and delicate hands, with her quick
wit and her soft stomach. but she finds a spot, nestles her way in and stays. she stays.

you are thirty and your life wasn’t bad, so everything should be fine. you should be well-
adjusted. there was no traumatic war, there was no horrifying accident. yet you dream of
DROWNING, pale fingers catching nothing but water as you inhale. as you go dark.

google says that’s anxiety. sadness. some self-proclaimed shaman says its your body’s way
of trying to shut you down, stop you from feeling so much. you wish it’d work.

tonight, it happens for the first time since you’ve met her. your hair smells of SALTWATER,
you can’t catch your breath. you’re running, running :: you FALL. plunge. you, tailless
mermaid, naked body ( google says you’re afraid ) writhing in an icy, black ocean. it is
CATACLYSMIC, a greek tragedy. you sink into this inky sea and no one notices.
NO ONE MISSES YOU.

( I WISH I COULD JUST LEAVE RIGHT NOW
I WISH I COULD JUST LEAVE RIGHT NOW
I WISH I COULD JUST LEAVE RIGHT NOW )

you are thirty and you still feel alone. you still feel too much.

mouth w i d e , a gutted fish, she catches you as you surface, awake, alive. but everything
still tastes THALASSIC. it still sounds as though you are far away. vaguely, you realize this
is the first time ( since your mother ) that someone has woken you up. she calms you, tsunami-
eyed girl, shushes your trembles with the pads of her fingers, the drag of her mouth. comfort.

you tell her, once the clock reminds you that she must be tired, that you woke her up. you
tell her, once she finally SPEAKS, says you were mumbling something about alone, alone,
alone, alone. repetition. order. you tell her you still smell like brine, but she says your scent is
SWEET. soft. kisses the palm of your hand as though it wasn’t pruned.

it wasn’t. you’re AWAKE. she’s uncomfortable, bad with her words, so you tell her. you
spill the secret of your parents, long-separated. you spill a fear, just one. you’re LONELY.

she holds you tighter, uses her words. she’s there, she’s here, right now. you spill a fear ::
you KNOW. she's right there and you're still alone. you're still drowning.

she holds you tighter, but you feel like an EMPTY SET, a ghost number.

( it’ll be alright in the morning, when the sour-sweet of that sun streams through the windows.
everything is better in the daytime, you remember. so you let her kiss your cheeks, let her
pull you back up from the hell you got stuck in, pins and needles in you like a voodoo doll. )

you are a PITTED PEACH, but she is planting. she is planting.

Description
you are seven when your heart breaks for the first time.

they were usually careful, quiet, waiting until you and your sister were SOUND ASLEEP
before the disagreements started. they loved you, you know, your mother with her copper-
on-fire hair and your dad with his warm hands.

your sister's asleep but you’re so excited for the SUN to come up :: you want to drag your little
table outside and sell lemonade, pour the sour-sweet sun into someone’s cup for a quarter.
maybe, maybe if you’re QUIET, you can make your first batch now. it’s 10 PM, but you can
leave it in the fridge.

the stairs creak slightly beneath your gently chunky legs, and you think you’ve been FOUND
when you hear voices, sounds. mama’s going to send you back to bed with a pat to the tush,
your lemonade will have to wait till tomorrow––

but even though the TALKING gets louder, no one comes.

curious feet carry you forward, to the corridor, the hallway. you hide in the shadows of
your mama’s favorite cuckoo clock, similar to the way he sits in his house, waiting for the
right time. your glee at hearing your parents plan SECRETS, trade stories into the night melts like
wax into CONFUSION, into surprise.

mama’s crying. she’s yelling at daddy and he’s yelling BACK, and you don’t understand
the dynamics of marriage yet but you know you’re supposed to LOVE it.

‘ i wish i could just LEAVE right now ! ‘

‘ i won’t miss you. ‘

you are seven when you feel alone for the first time.

he’s back by 8 AM that next morning, calling you rosy and kissing the tiptop of your head.
you don’t WANT to sell lemonade anymore, but he helps you squeeze the lemons, draws
pretty bluebirds on your sign. mama laughs, crosses the t’s and dots the i’s you forgot.

you are seven when you learn that your heroes are only happy sometimes. when you crawl
into bed that night you pretend like you’re not listening for another fight. sissy, ten and proud,
knows nothing.

you are seven when you keep your first secret. it quiets you.

______

you are thirty when you meet her, you are thirty when you hate her, you are thirty when you
love her. you are thirty and you know better than anyone that happiness is a SOMETIMES thing,
made for whenever you get the chance to fit it into you schedule. you don’t know how
you’re supposed to fit her in — her, with her freckled back and delicate hands, with her quick
wit and her soft stomach. but she finds a spot, nestles her way in and stays. she stays.

you are thirty and your life wasn’t bad, so everything should be fine. you should be well-
adjusted. there was no traumatic war, there was no horrifying accident. yet you dream of
DROWNING, pale fingers catching nothing but water as you inhale. as you go dark.

google says that’s anxiety. sadness. some self-proclaimed shaman says its your body’s way
of trying to shut you down, stop you from feeling so much. you wish it’d work.

tonight, it happens for the first time since you’ve met her. your hair smells of SALTWATER,
you can’t catch your breath. you’re running, running :: you FALL. plunge. you, tailless
mermaid, naked body ( google says you’re afraid ) writhing in an icy, black ocean. it is
CATACLYSMIC, a greek tragedy. you sink into this inky sea and no one notices.
NO ONE MISSES YOU.

( I WISH I COULD JUST LEAVE RIGHT NOW
I WISH I COULD JUST LEAVE RIGHT NOW
I WISH I COULD JUST LEAVE RIGHT NOW )

you are thirty and you still feel alone. you still feel too much.

mouth w i d e , a gutted fish, she catches you as you surface, awake, alive. but everything
still tastes THALASSIC. it still sounds as though you are far away. vaguely, you realize this
is the first time ( since your mother ) that someone has woken you up. she calms you, tsunami-
eyed girl, shushes your trembles with the pads of her fingers, the drag of her mouth. comfort.

you tell her, once the clock reminds you that she must be tired, that you woke her up. you
tell her, once she finally SPEAKS, says you were mumbling something about alone, alone,
alone, alone. repetition. order. you tell her you still smell like brine, but she says your scent is
SWEET. soft. kisses the palm of your hand as though it wasn’t pruned.

it wasn’t. you’re AWAKE. she’s uncomfortable, bad with her words, so you tell her. you
spill the secret of your parents, long-separated. you spill a fear, just one. you’re LONELY.

she holds you tighter, uses her words. she’s there, she’s here, right now. you spill a fear ::
you KNOW. she's right there and you're still alone. you're still drowning.

she holds you tighter, but you feel like an EMPTY SET, a ghost number.

( it’ll be alright in the morning, when the sour-sweet of that sun streams through the windows.
everything is better in the daytime, you remember. so you let her kiss your cheeks, let her
pull you back up from the hell you got stuck in, pins and needles in you like a voodoo doll. )

you are a PITTED PEACH, but she is planting. she is planting.