S T R E P T H R O A T

it was me
at fourteen
that rushed the medicine cabinet
with codeine straps
and forgot that m said
not be the one that let
inadequate talk
shape me.
the bathroom floor was always cold enough
to cool me. my brain, my heart,
the easing nature of
an onslaught of thinking.
big words for little eyes
( I can't see pretentiously.)
Using a weight because it made the sounds of a pig when my mothers's feet, now mine, stepped on.
it was foolish,
Later ages thought it seemed healthily strong.
And unique -unique, unique- to
Fold my hands with
A drooping head
and watch from the edge of the pool
the pages burning in chlorine
from my sister's diary.
we watched and waited,
my hearing edged on the speech of a Dream/
countdown and the flipping tabs till we saw
the 3 days 34 minutes and 54
-53
-52 seconds until It Happened and I Did It
(but I wouldn't because she told me I mattered)
The sort of thinking that brought around a Pasty Kind Of Hot, the sort that sweats at the mention of your mother at the office coming down to see you and what you've done,
That
Phone call.
That a bathroom floor couldn't fix.
That the cold couldn't just
Remedy.

(Not anymore! It's time to recognize the sight of enough.)
It was me. Again.
This year with a will to paste pictures of hands on the walls because they felt like a grasping sound
(The grasping around when you stared out the window into your neighbor's house and saw
a Christmas tree in July and fighting shadows in June.)
falling back on your S ridden spine onto your mother's bed watching yourself carve letters into the wardrobe’s warping wood
“To feel like this is to understand your EXTENT”

And it was enough. It was too much of enough.






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