Entangled Particles: A Poem


Einstein couldn’t fathom an inborn connection
existing between two hydrogen atoms.
Certainly, he postulated, they may spiral away
from their shared origination at some calcium speck,
but there is simply no way for them
to maintain their choreography of synchronized spins
at distances even the speed of light cannot surmount.
A connection, then, can be bred, he said,
but it cannot be sustained
when particulars become separated.
There is nothing spiritual inherent
in a history of physical touch.

Even lacking a background in physics, I, for one,
believe old Albert had the right idea.
Last July, for example, I mattered to you,
and you held me on the sidewalk
with fierce and swirling love.
This afternoon, however, you drove past
and, unsmiling, you averted your eyes.
The wheels on your car were spinning like atoms;
we had lost what once felt quantum. You and I
were local entities, disparate and directionless,
despite the touches we’d once shared—touches so elemental
that they could have been built into our bones.

I thought about your nose, how it once felt
pressed to my skull, and about how atoms grow distracted
and fall away. What Einstein once posited
I know to be true: bodies cannot stay in touch
in the unforgiving chasm of space.

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Again: A Poem


volcano

you broke me like a shift
in tectonic plates.
revved with red, i combusted
when you said, “let’s just be friends
again.” the surface of the world smashed like glass,
lava oozing like the blood on my fists
as i battered myself, breaking free
of the hold your pyroclastic love
still had on me––it was your poisonous ghost,
sighing with an opaque, untouchable gossamer
over the gaping rocky wounds of my crests,
that killed what i loved best.
everything choked. the supercharged spill
swallowed all, entire deer omitted from existence,
falling to their knees, already carcasses, their nostrils loaded
with proto-igneous fire, eyes rolling backwards
and dissolving into flame—precious blushing blooms
i eradicated, their petal lips lit
until ashen, until ash, speciation undone—
i singed the coastline, shells swollen
to bursting with the heat, the red, the black, tiny crabs
dropping their pincers in defeat.

you wafted towards the ocean and took life
with you. but a volcanic eruption will always create
an island, bleak at first, but soon
populated in waves. first, by grasses
in greens and yellows, nurtured by sweet billowing breezes
sighing between pink clouds on blue days.
the plants are grateful as they sway. i will feel the same.
before long, the pores of my new land
will brim with heartbeats. even now, i can feel vines
stretching towards my peak, relentlessly sweet, twisting little leaves
and great trees creaking their necks towards the sun. the snow
still graces my steaming head—no matter how often
i make it melt, it returns to feed my streams,
winding into hot springs and summers
to nourish the colors. the fog, once dispersed
by my self-destructive rage, settles its pallor
calmly like a sleep mask after a laborious day.
life refuses to abandon me. i must possess some special beauty,
because it seems the world is adamant
about keeping me around.

In Your Kitchen: A Poem


I never did write that poem about the two of us
making lemon cake in your kitchen—
the walls a robin-egg blue,
the ribbed bowl of yellow dough like a yolk
on the small wooden table.
I never did write that poem
about the crunch that took me aback
every time you thwarted another shell
against the counter, about how
it made me jump a little every time

I never did write that poem about your fir-needle eyelashes
(they made me feel alive, like a fireplace,
and when I grappled for the spoon,
they crushed together—a laugh
that didn’t dare to break the nourishing albumen
of silence)
or that poem about the way
you quilted me within you, right there in your kitchen,
sealed me like a letter
with a rosy forehead kiss.

It was like this––
so close that my every breath was filled with your air, so close
that the thrums of your heart riveted me
in the center of the world––
that I first noticed the cracks
in the robin-blue paint.

I never did write that poem
about how we used up all the eggs.

Sometimes, my bed is an empty foam carton.
I hold my chest tightly, but I can’t keep my yolk
from spilling out.

I’m writing this poem about how we crumbled
like an eggshell, like a coliseum, like my ribcage
every night for the next two months. Lemon-flavored breaths,
swaths of you, taste like poison to me.

My heart is shaped like your kitchen, but
there’s nothing left to crack.

Almost: A Poem (or, rather, Lyrics for which I May Never Write Music)


Screen Shot 2016-08-05 at 5.31.17 PM

Crooked-tooth beauty, your wide smile curved
I saw you were everything I almost deserved
Head on your collarbone, I didn’t feel so alone
Affectionate words, unreserved

Your eyes, crinkled pastries all happy like that
Your toes, autumn-awkward on the welcome mat
You shone perfect pink, let your long lashes blink
Then lifted me up, swift, strong acrobat

Crooked-tooth beauty, you spun me around
Like a hot-air balloon peeled up from the ground
My giggles went pealing; swear I touched the ceiling
And back in your arms, warm and safe, I was found

What bright stroke of luck had granted me you?
What guardian angel did I have? Or who
Would read my bent mind and then be so kind
As to hand me the best thing the heavens can do?

Tumultuous beauty, I held you to me
Light met your green eyes like sunsets on the sea
Sweet fragile foam, you became my home
Now my boat is lost and I am so alone.

Breakups


They suck, apparently.

It’s been over a month since I split with my ex-boyfriend and I’m still not really over it. At all.

0a134f738216560debdc0e5e71764726In that time, he’s done cool stuff with his friends and he has even obtained a new girlfriend. I’ve just kind of cried a lot. I miss the sense of security I had when I was in his arms, or cooking with him, or even when he would stop by my house on his runs and bike rides. It felt so nice to be wanted, loved, to feel special and important to someone.

I could sense when he stopped loving me. Those were a lot of nights spent staying up in bed, pretending to be asleep, with my heart rate at a million beats per second and a small puddle in each eye. I’d tried to break up with him a few times in the month before that–for his sake, believe it or not (that’s another story). But I still can’t shake how terrifying, how unexpected it was that he would stop loving me. I never stopped loving him during our relationship. I still haven’t.

I’ve been trying to fight so many of my negative thoughts that have appeared as a result of the breakup. A main one is reconciling the idea that someone could fall out of love with me  with my constant battle for self-love. Another is the loss of one of the best friends I’ve ever had–someone I felt so comfortable with that I never felt the need to hide any aspect of who I am from him. I don’t know how to feel about being discarded. I still want to be special to him–even if I can’t be his girlfriend, I want to be his best friend again. I know it’s impossible, but it doesn’t change how I feel.

Even with all of these things in mind, the absolute worst part is trying to get him out of my system. I think about him when I’m trying to sleep, when I wake up, when I get cold, when I need someone to talk to (ironically, the breakup has been the main reason for this as of late), when I see a joke that I want to share, and when I just need to see a face outside my family. I have to consciously remind myself that we won’t ever be the same, that some of the things I had looked forward to in our relationship will never come to pass. I can’t rely on him anymore. And although my feelings work to the contrary, I have no right to be jealous anymore.

Screen shot 2016-02-04 at 4.41.18 PMI’ve had to adopt a new mantra. Whereas pre-split I used to tell myself, “You are loved,” I have since found that that particular sentence can be very hard to believe (after all, he told me he loved me after he stopped meaning it, so how can I trust that anyone loves me?). The new one is also a challenge, but it’s a necessary challenge, because without it I can’t ever move on.

I am not his failure to love me.

I am worth so much more than his love. He is, after all, the one who failed. The one who wasn’t willing to work things out. The one who didn’t care enough about me to fight his cowardice and tell me he was done. He’s the one who lied, who kept giving me an empty “I love you.”

I tried to keep him. I tried so hard. But in the end, he wasn’t worth the effort. And that isn’t my fault. Nothing I could have done would have made him stay. And that isn’t my fault. It’s his fault. He is the one with the problem. He is the one who threw me away. He is the one who loses.

He was the best boyfriend in the whole world until he stopped loving me.  He was sweet, patient, cuddly, soft, honest, open-minded, kind, gentle, and maybe even a little indulging. In short, he did everything right. But it’s difficult–impossible, even–to forgive this one misstep. And maybe I don’t have to.

I will be loved again. I will find another friend like him.

I am not his failure to love me.

He is his failure to love me.

And that is not my fault.

Ciao for now,
Mikki (who, despite the odds, is in one piece)

The Last: A Poem


acid rain forest

He pulled his lips away and asked,

“What a tender time it’s been,

But, darling, I have known the last;

Nowhere there do you fit in.”

filler!

My retort with clever spin:

“Little do you know, sweet man,

It is only your chagrin

Which trails behind tonight’s plan.”

filler!

As, towards the door, he ran,

I rested hands with pinching pout.

“Your run can never hold your span;

Your breath can never silence shout.”

filler!

But what else is the room about?

If not the cavern that he leaves,

If not the lies behind the tout,

If not the tender that he grieves?

filler!

But what else lies in hard heart thieves?

If not the empty at her side,

If not the veins the hollow cleaves,

If not the running, fleeing wide?

The Promise String: A Short Story


tumblr_njyzapXYyD1u92dlto1_500We’re suspended, the two of us here.

“Why do we need this?” he asks.

“So you don’t forget.”

“So I don’t forget, or so that I remember forever?” he chuckles at his own distinction. I don’t find it amusing in the slightest. The mug of hot liquid on the table is rapidly throwing steam from its possession.

“Do you want to untie it?”

“No. I never want to forget.”

“Now you’re lying.” He’s playing with the ends of the tie so that I know he’s lying. I drop his hand and it falls on the table between us.

“That hurt.” He says it but he doesn’t flinch, almost as if he saw the pain coming. I stand up from my wooden chair, opposite from his, and I’m relieved when the steely cold of the wood loses contacts with my body. He almost follows me, I can sense it, but part of him likes that steely cold.

“I swear I don’t want to forget,” he says. “I promise.” It’s all irrelevant. My back is to him.

“You can’t remember forever,” I tell him, my hands on the drapes. “You just can’t.” I start to tug on them.

“We can remember for as long as we want,” he suggests. “Even if we forget a few times. Forever is a long time to never forget something.”

“You would know about that.” I close the drapes. There’s still steam coming from the hot mug, now cooling, and even from across the room it warms my back.

“It will be a long time before I can forget this,” he hums. “It’s getting cold.”

“You like it cold.”

“I only said that so you would borrow my jacket.”

A part of the curtain, I realize now, was left partly open. It seems I won’t be forgetting for a long time, either. But I don’t know if this will be something worth remembering forever. The temperature in the room is dropping. The chair was cold, anyway. I pack my things and leave.