punch line

"Nina, how was Malibu?", I ask.

"Amazing! It was really great and the wedding was a lot of fun. Laura looked beautiful, of course."

I see Shoshanna nodding out of the corner of my eye. Everyone at the table turns their attention to the exhange.

"There was so much food and we drank our faces off." She stops for a moment, looking past us. I turn and look behind me, trying to see what's caught her eye.

"You know what was so funny?", she continued, "We were having so much fun, drinking and dancing, and at one point I looked up, and I saw Laura look back at me from across the room. She looked beautiful - honestly, radiant, and she smiled and winked at me, just like old times, as if to say, this is great, isn't it? Aren't we having so much fun?"

We're all listening, waiting for the punch line, smiling and nodding.

She continues, her voice a little shrill, "I smiled back at her and winked, but then I got this weird feeling. So I turned around and there was Greg, her new husband, standing right there behind me. She wasn't even looking at me. The whole time she'd been winking at Greg!", she laughed.

My heart sinks.

"It was so funny! I mean really, it was hysterical."

did I mention I love NY?

From Overheard in NY:

Yuppie businessman on cell: "I don't care who designed them, you're taking them back... You spent $600 on a paid of fcking shoes!? Unbelievable... Ok, whatever, I don't care, this conversation is over... Goodbye!" [to friend] "Can you believe this sht?.... Lucky for her she lets me fck her in the ass."


--46th & Madison Ave

his apple

That morning the sun was shining.
Chased with coffee,
Breakfast went down smooth
And I fell in love on the subway again.
I was on a roll
But I do this
I reach out
A glutton for punishment
And keep coming back.

In my eagerness to taste it
I bite down on the glass
Holding wine and shards
In my mouth
Wondering
How to swallow.

I'll admit
My reaction
Was in no way proportionate to the situation.
He spits where others exhale.
Even so, I'll call it
It's all mine.

He's given very little, you see
Telling me things about his life
Making me an ally
A sympathizer
But I thought I was getting something too.
Once, like Virginia Slims
He told me I’d come along way.
Out of his strategically placed stones
I managed to draw back something
That looked a little like blood.

At the bone
It's as sad and as simple
As a little girl trying to keep her father
Over and over again
Only he left a long time ago.
Nothing could have changed that.
Nothing would have come before his agony.
There was no way I could have made things right.

sunday star

I was up and across the room pressing snooze before I even realized I was awake. Eyes still closed, I felt my way back to bed. The voices weren't as loud this time. They were more subtle and accompanied by images. There was a bottle of pills in a glass bowl, nestled in a second bigger bowl, and then a third. There was a pencil with the lead broken off, the pink eraser end dry and useless.

I threw the covers over me and turned onto my left side, clearing the drone away temporarily, like windshield wipers in the rain. It quickly got too hot, so I threw back the covers. I reached up and opened the window above my bed. Back down again, I turned onto my stomach, hands under the pillow above my head.

I had to pee. I contemplated. I waited another 30 seconds and then got up. Sitting on the toilet, the room took a sideways bend. Immediately I knew it would be a rough morning. I had to lay down fast. I broke out into a cold sweat as I made my way back to my bed, tripping over yesterday's Toronto Star. I remained very still until it passed. I drifted back into a sleep, peppered with snippets of last night's conversations and random images: there was a dog I wanted to take for a walk, but I didn't have grocery bags for scooping; a mirror I was cleaning with Windex; clocks with alarms that might go off at any moment.

It all started yesterday when I spent the day with this guy I've been dating. We had a nice lunch, with the April showers as our backdrop. We window shopped under an umbrella, spoke French, laughed at ourselves, went to a movie... As we drove home, I became aware of a tiny seed of a bad feeling. The rain seemed more menacing than cozy. I couldn't put my finger on it, but whatever it was, it was firmly embedded in the pit of my stomach by the time we kissed goodbye:

"Have fun tonight." I told him.

"You too. I'll talk to you later."

There it was, though, and I couldn't shake it. I couldn't lose it or name it. It was this sense, which threatened to take over the space inside me. I felt like I was going to cry but instead I threw myself into getting ready to meet my friends for dinner. Then on the streetcar, I focused on listening to my music and watched the cars and the people, holding onto the umbrella in my lap with everything I had. A rough looking man with two boys got on at Bathurst, one around eight years old and the other about three. The younger boy was small with shaggy blond hair. He had meaty little fingers and he was wearing winter boots with "Tonka" written down the sides. He looked up at me and I smiled at him. He smiled back and then turned away, bashful, toward his brother. His brother grinned and patted his head. I blinked back tears and wished I could turn around and go home. I didn't want to go out for dinner. My appetite was gone, but the feeling was getting bigger and harder to ignore.

"What's wrong?", Shoshanna asked when I sat down at the bar next to her.

"Nothing." I told her.

I considered how if she pushed, I might turn into a complete raving lunatic.

"You sure? Something seems wrong."

"I'm fine", and with all I could muster, "really".

I held my breath. Please leave it alone, please leave it alone, please leave it alone.

Just then Rob arrived and right behind him was Jami. After a few sips of wine, it struck me that the feeling was slowly receding. I took another swallow. Farther still. Many drinks later I couldn't even conjure it up when I tried.

This morning, as I carefully chewed on triscuits and sipped water, I read a story about a drug-addicted doctor who had an angel that followed him around, trying to get him to do the right thing. The building tension of the story became indistinguishable from my own nausea and the feeling from last night that was making a pulsating comeback. I closed my eyes and set the magazine down. I drifted to sleep again, this time seeing pregnant women, baby birds feeding from droppers, and an angel with cats for shoes. I woke up for a moment, reached for the phone and left Evan a message to tell him I wouldn't make it for brunch. I rolled over and fell back asleep still holding onto the New Yorker.

come closer

I'm a bit frozen in place in this little blog life I lead. For one, none of you even know my real name. That's really the least of my concerns though, cause what's in a name? You get more of "me" than a lot of people do - not that you're asking for it, but you do come back for something...

No one in my 'real life' knows about my blog. Not one single human being. Is that weird? Is it? I'm asking, so feel free to answer. A lot of people don't even know I write. Some of them do, but in the past I have had a couple of my friends read a short story or two, and it felt like I had Freddy Kruger in my stomach, striped shirt, scissors for fingers and all. No wait, that was Edward Scissorhands. I loved that movie. But having them read my short stories wasn't fun for me. Maybe you get through that if you give it a chance. I don't know. Haven't tested it out. I took a creative writing class once. I had to read my work in front of the class. It would have been unbearable, but coincidentally I had an academic wine and cheese party right before class and in preparation for my reading I guzzled a couple of glasses of wine in about 10 minutes. It worked.

If the privacy issue isn't enough cement to stand in, I have these technological blinders on. I'm no idiot, yet I've just barely managed to figure out how to publish posts. I somehow stumbled onto how to make a blogroll, and on the advice of a fellow blogger, I learned how to see my stats (so thankfully I know that, when I'm lucky, all 7 of you read what I write). Outside of that my blog has been static. No Madonna-like reinvention of the self here.

I am interested to know how anonymous you are with your writing. The idea of saying, "Hey [insert name of any friend], I have been blogging for two years" kills me. I feel like I might as well be talking to my friends about masturbating. No - wait...I can do that. So why is this one so hard for me?

Let me try to answer that honestly. By telling people I write, it feels like I'm telling them I write WELL. I worry I'll sound presumptuous. So what? What am I afraid of? I guess I imagine people scoffing, eye-rolling, looks might be exchanged. I worry I would sound self-absorbed, dramatic, affected. But what's the worst thing that could happen? What if, in fact, I suck AND I keep writing, thinking I'm ok? I guess nothing, really.

Everyone has their own truth. I'm a firm believer that there is no such thing as an objective truth. One assumption I have always held, of which I have only recently become aware, is that anything outside of obligation or doing the "right thing " is simply frivolous. Writing falls into this category. It's hard for me to openly do something that has no purpose beyond personal gratification. So, secret blogging forever? I have no idea how to resolve that. I guess I'll play it by ear. I'm asking the questions. That's gotta count for something. Do I just say fuck it? Do I need to put it out there and if people don't like what I have to say, that's not my problem? Do I swallow my fear and forge ahead or is this little aneurism something that should be clipped and left alone?

something was missing

My father called me at work to tell me he was going to be in town this weekend and to ask me if I could do lunch. He told me how well business was going now.

“Things are really looking up”, as they so often are, with him. He talked about how the wrinkles in his new marriage are being ironed out. I scanned data outputs at my desk, half listening.

“Mmhmmm? That’s great, Dad.”

After a while he asked me how I was doing.

“Fine”, I told him. But then I stopped what I was doing, put down my pencil and absently ran a finger over the keyboard in front of me.

“I went to New York City a couple of weeks ago for a girls weekend. I really love that city.”

“Well, you remember how much I used to go there”, he said.

“No, actually I don’t.”

“Yes you do. Remember? I used to date that Jewish woman who lived in Manhattan?”

There was a vague flicker. “Did she have one leg or something?” I asked.

“No, Rachel”, there was a flash of frustration, "she was missing a hand.”

“Oh. I knew something was missing.”

“Anyway, I used to visit her all the time. She was supposed to come to see me in Vancouver, but that was just a few weeks before I met Sasha”, he chuckled, his annoyance melting instantaneously. Sasha was his second wife.

“Oh, that’s nice”, I responded, picking up my pencil. He didn’t seem to hear me.

“You know your father - always a cassanova.”

“No Dad, I don’t, and maybe that’s why.”

He stumbled to find his next words, but only for a moment, blinders back on. I listened for a couple more minutes.

“Listen, I gotta get going Dad."

"Yeah, ok. No problem. It was nice to talk to you. Always nice to talk to my daughter."

"I’ll talk to you soon, ok?”

“Sure.” He said. ”It’s great to hear things are going so well for you.”

shabbat shalom

Happy Passover and Happy Easter.

And in the words of the Hebrew Hammer, "Shabbat Shalom, mother fuckers".

unleavened bread

Right now I'm reading short stories by Raymond Carver. This man has a way with words. His talent for word efficiency is unmatched. What I would give to have that kind of talent. If you haven't read him, I highly recommend. Let me know what you think.

Passsover begins tonight. Thankfully I'm a big fan of the matzo, but for you poor souls prone to constipation, I feel for you. I think matzo with peanut butter and jam is great. Even with just plain margarine it's delicious. I'm spending the holidays with Evan, his wife, and their families. Always entertaining, let me tell you. I just got off the phone with him. He called for the second time today to tell me he was naked in his garage, getting things out of the deep freezer in preparation for the big Seder. He kills me.

On a slight aside, we can rest easier knowing that the Jews didn't kill Jesus afterall. I just can't believe that Mel Gibson got it all wrong (asshole).

Speaking of the Jews, I met this guy a couple of weeks ago. We've only been out a couple of times, but he's very cute, funny, smart, open-minded - a real mensch. He took me out for dinner the other night and we talked for hours. We literally closed the place. I didn't look at my watch all night. Not once. When he drove me home, he pulled up to my apartment and I wasn't already undoing my seatbelt or moving to open the door. That 's a good sign, no? The next day he was flying out to spend Passover with his family. He called me from his parents later that night. I wasn't home, but he left me a message. Just wanted to say hi. I thought that was nice. I was even a little excited. Also I good sign.

I got the strangest message today from this guy I vaguely remember having gone out with over a year ago. I can't even remember what happened or how we met, but I remember his name and I recognized the name of his company from call display. The message went as follows:

"Hi Rachel, it's Joey. Just calling about your brochure. I'll be in the office for the next couple of hours, if you want to give me a call back, otherwise I'll just give you a call tomorrow and we can discuss."

Last I checked, I don't have a "brochure". My first thought was, 'or do I?' I was so confused at first I wasn't sure. My next (slightly paranoid) thought was 'holy shit, someone is circulating something terrible about me'. Why that would come to mind, I have no idea. I'm no Paris Hilton, and even if I was, "brochures" are not generally the medium of choice, and certainly people have better things to do. It was much like my reaction to my break-in. When I saw that all of my drawers were emptied in my bedroom, naturally I assumed my place had been 'tossed' to 'send a message'.

This round of paranoia truthfully wasn't just a split second either. It lasted until Shoshana stopped by to visit about an hour later. I said, "you gotta listen to this message and tell me what you think."

Shoshana got it right away. "How embarassing for him! He works in graphic design, right?", she laughed.

"From what I recall, something like that."

"Poor guy! He must have made a mistake. He probably had someone named Rachel order a brochure design. He must still have you in his contact list, got mixed up trying to return her call and called you instead."

It all made sense, but very funny.

six

My mother set the plate of spaghetti down in front of me and as she turned back to the stove I reached across the table, straining to get the salt and pepper. It was a two-in-one, with a black button that dispensed the pepper and a white button for salt. Tres early 80's. With one eye on my mother, I struggled to coordinate my small hands to reach both buttons at once, holding it over my plate. I stretched my fingers as far apart as they would go, steadying with my other hand, and pressed down on the buttons. I must have pressed too hard and for too long on the salt side because the entire contents spilled in a pile on my spaghetti. My breath caught, and my eyes grew wide. Panicking quietly, I put the shaker back in its spot. I looked up again to make sure my mother hadn’t noticed. What do I do? What do I do? I picked up my fork and stirred the salt into my spaghetti. Relief flooded in when I saw how easily it disappeared, but then I tasted it. It was horrible. I could barely swallow it.

“Hurry up, Rachel." My mother's voice startled me. "I'm in no mood to watch you sit there and pick at your food. Eat!”. I could tell I was getting on her last nerve. I took another bite, swallowing hard. I tried not to let the taste show on my face. I wondered how I was going to get through this one.

NYC High

Written in my notebook - 2:30 AM on Saturday night in NYC:

"I can feel 'me' through the high, from both sides. It's 'me' and 'not me', but it doesn't scare me."

Now that, my friends, is deep. Can you believe that I actually thought it was profound enough to break away from the party to write it down? Amazing what a little weed can do for you.

pink cadillac

It was only moments ago that I saw him. Having tightly bundled the baby girl I was taking care of so she could get some uninterrupted sleep, I ventured out into the hallway to see if anyone needed help. I was in an area of the intensive care unit where there were a series of single rooms, mainly used for isolation. I stuck my head into Janet’s room. I could barely see her through the web of wires and tubes.

"Hey Janet, can I do anything for you?"

"Rachel! Am I glad to see you. It's hectic in here tonight." I stepped into the room amd she continued, "If you could make me a up a new dopamine infusion that would be great. His is running low so we should probably have a fresh one going for transport. Maybe after that I’ll need a hand putting a new blue pad under him.”

"No problem", I told her.

While Janet finished drawing blood work from the arterial line I rounded up the supplies I would need to make up the syringe. Washing my hands I looked around the room, my eyes resting at the bedside. I could see a head of blond curls and that smooth,‘I just came back from Florida’-tanned skin. I scanned the monitor that hung heavy from the ceiling. Clearing off a space for myself on the counter, I picked up a clear plastic bag to move it. It contained a small pair of worn flannel pajamas with pictures of trains and clouds in faded primary colors. I paused a moment, still holding the bag, and then turned back toward the bed, straining to take a better look. Recognition flooded in.

“Hey, I know you,” I said softly, smiling, walking toward the bed. “Michael!" I confirmed it was him, reading the name tag at the end of his bed. "Hey little man, I know you like us a lot but you didn’t need to come back to visit so soon!”. In fact, I never expected to see this kid again. His was a happy ending. He was born with a cardiac defect, one of those congenital conditions that often require a couple of stages of surgical repair. I took care of him at the time when he was recovering from his final operation. I remember how his Mom and Dad were exhausted and anxious, but they knew it was his last and that it had gone well. I wondered what he was doing back.

I could see that Janet had stopped what she was doing and was looking up at me. I continued,
“You look like you just spent the last two weeks building sandcastles.” I looked towards Janet as I said, “Check out these tan lines!” The last two words trailed off as I saw her expression.

***

Now, alone in this tiny space, I hug my knees to my chest and I draw my sweatshirt over the bridge of my nose, filling my lungs. I’m only vaguely aware of the smell of laundry detergent and antiseptic. The walls surrounding me are painted a comfortable bland color that's hard to name – some version of pale yellow or cream. In the safety of the bathroom, I recall the expression on Janet’s face, but then I will my thoughts away from this place.

My mind wanders back to the time I worked in a psychiatric ward as a nursing student. I led a weekly art group on a lock-down unit with people who were acutely psychotic. I think it's the pale yellow walls of the bathroom that remind me of the promise of those pristine pieces of paper that I would hand out to the group. I can almost smell the oily scent of the pastels as if I had just opened the package. I used to put all of the supplies on the table before we began, and it was that moment, right before anyone picked up their first pencil, that felt so full of promise. I think that if I could, that would be the point where I would have it all stop moving.

I recall one session where Floyd, a young guy who never said much, stared blankly at his page, which wasn’t unusual for him. After a long time, he picked up a paintbrush, dipped it into a Styrofoam cup of water and then circled it around one of the colored pucks of paint. He filled the brush to saturation and then held it over his paper. I could barely breath waiting to see what would happen next. Just before it dripped onto the page, he stuck the brush back into the cup. The cloud of pigment spread through the water like a silent detonation.

“Hey, what the hell? You can’t do that! He just screwed up the whole cup of water!", Jason, a new group member yelled out. He turned to me, "Now his colors are gonna ruin mine!.”

I could see that Jason was the kind of guy who was ready to jump on anyone he took as a threat. He had been admitted the night before after an altercation in a convenience store. He was convinced that the guy behind the counter had only denied selling him a slice of pizza because the ‘government wanted to cut off his food supply at the source’. During rounds that morning the psychiatrist that presented the case told us that this convenience store didn’t even sell pizza.

I introduced myself to Jason shortly after rounds, and I invited him to join the group. He had eagerly come to the table and before I finished setting up he had the whole group enthralled in his tales.

“…so what I do is I pop a bunch of Tylenol in my mouth and start chewing them'n shit. You know how they taste so bitter, right?” He continued before he received any response. “Then I can feel my stomach getting all acidy and it makes me mad." He leaned back in his chair smiling. "That’s when I know I can take on anyone.”

I found myself among the group who was captivated. Oddly, I think a small part of me envied how he chose to heighten rather than suppress his reaction. I refocused my attention and picked up an orange pastel, trying to set an example for the rest of the group. I took one last look at the unmarked page and started my first smooth petal. I chose a brilliant turquoise-blue for contrast. Glancing up I saw that everyone had picked up a pencil or pastel, except for Floyd.

***

I'm not sure what made me think of the art group. I picture Janet’s face, the look that forced my smile to lose it's content and my sentence to fade.

“Rachel, he’s dead,” she'd told me. Then, in response to the confusion on my face, but not before a dramatic pause that made me hate her, she continued. “Bathtub accident. They’ll be taking him into the O.R. soon. There will be some families getting quite an Easter present this year, as long as his organs look ok when they open him up”.

Sickness, horror, and rage carved through me leaving me hollow. Somehow I managed to keep nodding, feigning calm professional curiosity as Janet forged ahead with the brutal details. Nothing irritates the seasoned ICU nurse more than the very human reactions they work so hard to bury. When I knew I couldn’t manage another clean nod I withdrew, heading directly for the bathroom.

***

I press my palms into my temples, trying to push away the ache. My hands slide upward and my fingers meet, interlocking at the top of my head. Like this I stare up at the ceiling, my thoughts returning to the art group. I remember that day, how people were finishing up their pictures and were at different stages of displaying their work. Some folded little pieces of scotch tape into squares for the back of their artwork, others searched for a good spot on the wall for display. I reached for the white pastel and blended the orange into the blue on each petal. Once I had created a smooth uninterrupted flow of color, I picked up the black pastel. With smooth deliberate movements I enclosed my flower in a thick, black outline. Satisfied, I reached over to return the pastel when I saw a heavy brown hand reaching for the same package. Looking up, I was surprised to see that the hand belonged to Floyd. I remember thinking how strange for such a big guy that he was wearing one of those candy watches, which eternally read 3:00. The candy beads that used to be there had all been chewed off, leaving only a thin white elastic band that was too tight for his wrist. I thought how if I had noticed the watch at the beginning of the session the time would have been dead-on. He withdrew his hand and I saw that he had drawn something on his paper. It was small and difficult to make out. Trying to hide my enthusiasm I asked him what it was.

“It’s me, driving a car”.

“I see some pink in there. Is it a pink car?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he answered. I was sure that I could see the beginning of a proud smile. “It’s a Ca-dil-lac.” He emphasized each syllable with a slight side-to-side movement of his head. “That’s the car I’m gonna get someday”.

I hadn't realized I was smiling until I felt it wilt. I was overcome by a sudden sadness and I wished he had just left the sheet blank like he did every other time.

***

Hospital wide alarm bells jolt me back to the present. “Code blue 6 D-Delta, Code blue, 6 D-Delta”.

Thankful not to be on 6D, I wash my hands one last time, hesitating a little longer at the sink. I stared into my own eyes in the mirror, imploring the hot water to penetrate my skin and warm the blood returning to my heart. I walk down the long colorless corridor, finding myself back in Michael’s room. I hear myself rambling to Janet about how ‘weird the situation is’, and how ‘at least something good can come from such a horrible tragedy’. Janet carefully lifts him an inch off the bed. I slide a fresh blue pad underneath him. I remove the stethoscope from around my neck and I listen to his breath sounds and heart sounds. I note the vitals on the monitor. I feel both of his small feet for pulses and check his perfusion. He’s warm and his color is good and I pretend that I don’t know it’s only because of the machines and the medication. He looks like he’s sleeping. It reminds me of when I was in university and I would often go on roadtrips with my boyfriend. Whenever I saw an animal, dead on the side of the road, I would get upset. My boyfriend would comfort me, his hand pressed against mine, telling me, "It's ok, it's just sleeping."

The OR team file into the room to get handover for transfer. Setting up the transport equipment I try to figure out how, logistically, all of this actually ends, because as much as I understand the process, I can’t get my head around the last bit - when Michael ceases to be in this world. I mean, I know that the point has, by medical definition, been reached, but I keep trying to imagine the order of things. Will they extract them one organ at a time, starting with the least important or will they take them all at once? The uncertainty of the situation adds to the discomfort and somehow I think if I could just nail it down to the moment it would somehow be all right.

More people have filed into the room. The respiratory therapist removes Michael from the ventilator and manually bags air into his chest. I think how those little ribs will soon stop moving up and down. Someone releases the breaks on the bed with a loud metal clang and I jump, heart pounding. I scan the faces in the room to see if anyone noticed. The chaos of activity soon streams into a fluid mass exodus. I follow them out into the hall. As Janet walks passed me on her way back into the room she looks at me, shakes her head and sighs. I know this is one of those looks ICU nurses give each other that demands a reciprocal response, but instead I turn and watch the slow mass of people and machines. I focus in on the head of blond curls as they move down the hall and then dissappear.

a far cry

I can't get to sleep at a decent hour this week. Shit, I can barely find time to write. I have a bunch of stuff on the go but never enough time lately to get it out.

First there was NY, then there's been some dating (to be discussed at a later date perhaps, cause...well, I don't have time). Then there was dinner with some girlfriends and errands to run. I have dishes to do, I haven't unpacked my bag, my place is ridiculous, but you know what? This is the life! It is a far cry from the days where I used to be afraid to get in a car, afraid I might be pushed into an oncoming subway, or that I would be murdered in my sleep. I'm not going to complain. Not even when I hear my alarm going off at 6:30 AM. It's Friday tomorrow and I have a weekend of things that make me happy. Friday night I will come home and cook and clean (which always makes things feel new). Saturday I will do pilates and spend the afternoon on Queen West. That evening there will be some drinks, and then on Sunday I will read the paper, meet friends for brunch, go for a run, yoga, and then out for dinner with someone interesting. What's not good about that?

i heart black and white cookies

I think I’m in love. NYC is everything I needed and so much more. There's nothing like it. It seems it was built for me, almost a déjà vu, like reading Bukowski for the first time. It was my second wind. As good as a year of Fridays, eating cotton candy and never feeling sick, pulling together a perfect sentence. It felt like home. I could walk that city from morning until night and never for a moment wish I were somewhere else, never be bored, never feel complacent. It’s just dirty and rough enough that I could breath with ease. It’s a song, a poem, a painting, and a million short stories. There were blossoms and sunshine and grit. There was noise, passion, and life. By default, it’s the land of my people: bagels, whitefish, matzoh brie and 'Shalom Nails'. It was the best three days I could have imagined. Surrounded by my girls, I found energy I didn’t know I had, walking all day, drinking all night. I wasn’t sad to leave though, and let me tell you why. As definitively as I knew Thursday night that I would feel sad like that again, I know I will be back there again. And most importantly, it feels good to know I have the capacity to be this happy. The extremes aren't lost on me. As bad as I can feel, I can feel just as good.

PS Black and white tastes even better in a cookie.

anchor

Watch me as I move away from all of the people
I carry around with me
You, my rusted anchors
My suffocating blankets

You ground me
Flat
And hold me
With good intention

You can only stay in one place for so long
But first I must untangle myself
From keeping them away
And keeping them
So that they can keep me
As I pretend to want to leave