three new ones

a creek is a billion tears

there’s water flowing through the hallways of my head, like a plastic bottle on a subway car, coming towards me, and going away from me. i was 13 the first time my heart sank. but no matter. i no longer dream of someone to love me. but no matter. it won’t be long before i do again. for now, i see two birds when i close my eyes, on either side of a coat of arms. i watched myself cry on my computer screen at the livestream of a pandemic wedding. the water runs slowly, looking so tired, at the creek. a creek is a billion tears. it flows into international waters, and engulfs the bodies of terrorists whom no country would bury. the bathroom drain wishes it wasn’t so tired, and so unable, as the soapy water circles it like a tilt-a-whirl. these tears are happy, i think, there tears are not sad, though there is no difference. there is, of course, an urgency to take photos of birds when you spot them, because they fly away as they please. it is survival, i think, it is not escapism, though there is no difference. life is only a bird against rain, stopping and starting, stopping and starting, and coming and going.

afterword

there’s a fashion company running a bookstore in manhattan. i bought a book i didn’t read - i only checked to see how long it was. i used to read the last word of every book before i started it. i used to open one christmas present on christmas eve. it was always the largest one. i tell every therapist that i’m misunderstood. i fold the straw wrapper until it’s unrecognizable. most days feel like an afterword. it used to be odd not to leave a voicemail. i fold the straw wrapper until it won’t get any smaller. i couldn’t check how long that movie was becuase i was in a theater, but i sensed that it was ending ‘any minute now.’ i found out about the assasination after, it happened while i was watching something else. i met the mayor by chance. i tend to surprise people. i turn my anger inward. the more i chase respect from others, the more elusive it becomes. i get everything i want, if not immediately, then eventually. i stopped listening to songs unless they end in a minor key. i bought the book just because the cover was green. i do think for myself. i do think for myself. i do think for myself. a big dog can snap at any moment, because of their pasts. it’s not anger. i just called to say hello, there is no emergency.

the answer

my doctor does not let me ask questions. i am sometimes unwell. i am a minor character at the doctor’s office. most of my afflictions are solved with advil and a large bottle of water. there is nothing more devastating than witnessing a first date in public. nothing on this earth. two people slowly losing interest in each other, one knowing before the other. my doctor must know that i am a writer, and my answers matter more than my questions. anguish is borrowed from others, i think. then it overstays its welcome. a criminal’s prison sentence sometimes depends on if the judge has eaten lunch yet. nothing is more disturbing to me. i am sometimes unwell. i have a vague case of allergies, the source is unknowable. one day, advil and water will not work. it is sometimes like that. my neighborhood may have been named for a large tree, or for the man who planted it. the answer matters to me. i am allergic to trees, and men, for that matter. there is a stop on the train where no one ever gets on, and no one ever gets off. i am sometimes unwell. when i entered the subway it was bright outside. when i exit and come back up to the street, the sky has become darker than i’ve ever seen it. for the first time in my life, i think of having children.