Marisa Adame

sadness births itself into a chorus
that trickles its way onto my tongue:
one strong thought at first
that dissipates
into a cacophony of
insults to myself
apologies
for taking up space.

i’m sorry // i can’t make it.
i’m sorry // that i’m here.

i’m sorry i can’t sing for you my sadness
with a tune that makes sense to us both.
i disappear
like a metal melody broken on air,

clanging itself
into nothingness.

the crowd goes wild
when i lose track of my mind
and jump into an empty promise of hands
waiting for wrists to crack under my weight.

to surf on the voices of my demons is to give into impulses as they arise.

people cheer louder for energy they can see,
no matter that the demons cut the cables
and the wires lay bare and ready
to electrocute with their touch.

crowds want to see their heroes fall //
so when Mania comes along, she dances along stage edges
and tiptoes her way into the crowd.
she launches herself into the air with reckless abandon
and i

close my eyes tight
hoping for something to break my fall.

there’s an itch between my shoulder blades —
the hardest place to scratch.

i convert to contortionism
and learn to fold myself in fourths.

i dislocate my shoulderbones attempting to eradicate discomfort,
but i break the joint so often, it never has time to heal.

i jump through hoops
and give no second thought to my safe landing.

i trust the ligaments have not yet worn away.

i reach toward the middle of my back:
touch the premonition of a stabbing,
scratch a scab that’s not yet formed,
place my fingers on a wound
that’s yet to come.

editors note: Oh, the pain we have in anticipation of the pain we haven’t. – mh clay

the birds know that cold shit ain’t right,
flood their way to warmer skies, spoon themselves
across the equator two at a time and i
fly in the other direction–

North:

to the cold // crisp // dirty
snow that’s been dragged through arctic mud a thousand times.

sweat steams off my forehead,
escapes into eyebrows for just a moment of rest.
i wasn’t made for rest
the way the birds were
taking their sunny vacations at the first sight of snow.

“if you want something no one has, you must do what no one has done.”

i become an explorer, searching
for the aurora borealis under my skin
so i can become light itself.

i will have a feast upon my flesh
picking, searching for something beyond myself to offer to the stars
and when my motivation is filled with holes,
the cold will creep into the hollows of my bones
and inescapable madness will burrow its way into my nervous system.

the principle of entropy:
we have a habit of watching things rot.

i melt under pressure like ice cubes in the palm of a hand.
i search for starlight in my esophagus
to release it in the dead of night with a ceremonious scream
asking the ancients if i will be remembered
past my time.

me. string. disappearing act looking for the starting knot // tongue- // tied like magician’s scarves that amble without end. mind. twirling. riptides causing ruckus & mayday causing mayhem // a phantom limb of preconceived notions affixed to your wrists & feet. it starts with me // absent. turning trickster in the half- // moon. light as a feather that flaunts its impermanence in wind. the beginning is // me. flimsy. wound up too tight to be wrapped around a hand // & unable to wrap my mind around companionship // i don’t cut myself enough // slack.

would that i were a fruiting body,

rather than a rotting one.
i have no way of knowing
if the fruit fly’s affinity for my wrists
marks me as living
with honeyed sweetness in my skin,
or if it attempts to make a friend of me
before my afterlife.

fruit flies keep me company as i write.
their legs press along my skin. mouths touch
lightly, seeking food.

it seems i’ll be in careful, waiting hands
that rub together, and over the eyes, as if praying.
either before a meal or for one,

i’m unsure.

light throws chaos onto colors but cannot ignite the soul.

i only pray i am an apricot hanging
from a tree, ready to fall
from the seat of my sorrows and claim

my beginning.