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| Photo from The Virgin Suicides (2000), dir. Sophia Coppola |
Disclaimer: This poem contains depictions of physical and verbal abuse and mention of suicide ideation. Reader's discretion is advised.
i saw in a dream once
an old woman standing alone in a vanity mirror,
brittle bones creaking and spotted breasts sagging, spittle
dripping down her chin
as she faded away—
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust,
then nothing. nothing.
and when i woke up with dust-filled eyes
and tears dried across pink, porcelain cheeks
i sat up and stared at hues of cerulean and teal and
blinding white
and nothing. nothing.
i sat up and yawned and woke up to nothing.
i sleep once more and the next day i wake up
to a sink filled to the brim with unwashed dishes—worms
wrapped around rusty spoon handles,
roaches laying sound asleep humming in between saucers caked
with grease—
and an unmade bed and a messy room and a mother (grandmother
who was worked on me for far too long to realize that mother disappeared a long
time ago) who screams at me to get myself together.
her screams grow louder even as her voice turns hoarse.
(i am reminded of cattle being sent off to slaughter,
lambs crying until their last breath.)
she yanks at my arm until it turns purple and blue,
drags me around the room like a sack of regret,
throws me as if i am a rag doll that weighs nothing,
and then she asks me what the hell i am doing.
“what the hell are you doing,” she hisses
with eyes lowered into slits, irises glowing red
and she will continue to hiss and seethe and look at me as
if everything in my life (and hers) has gone wrong
even though it is only 4:30 in the morning
and all i have done is open my eyes.
i say i’m just tired,
a half-assed excuse about “essays” and “exams” and “useless
teacher” will stumble out my mouth as if rehearsed
and suddenly i am roxie hart standing onstage about to sing
i am danny zuko slicking my hair back grabbing my crotch for
far too long
i am every persona, every character i have ever watched
coming to life in front of my very eyes
because these theatrics are so much easier than simply
saying
“i am tired, but i don’t know why.”
“i am sad, but i don’t know why.”
“every day i wake up with the gnawing urge to blow my brains
out and wipe myself off the face of the earth, but i don’t know why.”
i feel the heat of a spotlight shining across my face
dripping with sweat and nausea and panic
and i suppress the urge to bow as mother
(grandmotherwhohasbecomemother) hmphs—
not because she believes me but because she knows that i am
a lost cause—
and leaves the room
and the lights are turning off and the audience is standing
up, throwing playbills into the garbage
and i am still up here onstage begging them not to go
(wait! how about an encore? please, an encore!)
because i do not think i like how any of this is going to
end.
i can hear a scuttle of legs and squeaking run across the
table.
a dish clanks down onto the floor and a roach flies free
from the wreckage.
dust flies into the air as grandmother
(notmothernotmotherNOTMOTHER)
shuts the door behind her.
i turn and look around at the mess,
a battlefield of spilled tears and broken bottles and empty
takeaway boxes,
and in the mirror i see the old woman with lips poised
upwards into a rickety smile.
(“nothing,” she mouths.
“you are nothing.”)
