dig a little deeper

I ate asparagus the other night and my pee still smells funny.  The formaldehyde followed me after the cadaver lab field trip.  On my clothes, on my skin, in my nose, in my head.  The fear of not feeling enough fear that day is still haunting me.

You think this is a metaphor.

My mom bought new mouthwash.  It's green.  It will kill the germs.  I want to swallow it and not call poison control.  Feel it go down like cool peppermint.  Invigorating clean.

Lavender walls and seven year olds who make bad decisions.  Lavender is the color of prancing through daisies with unicorns and rainbows.  Not of lonely nights and boiling frustration and walking nightmares.  Or for girls who despise being called girly. Or for girls who are sometimes incidentally sexist toward their own gender without meaning to be.

The Doctors Without Borders world map I opened with adventure and hope and happiness flowing through my veins; never hung up.  Folded with the Arctic ocean and Alaska facing up.  It wasn't always folded.  The world wasn't always this big.  I wasn't always this worthless.

Bob Dylan's in the dark, looking up at the bottom of the dresser.  He was a dollar off at Amoeba because of his folded corner.  He was on the wall before I knew that tape is too weak to hold things up.

Three photos pinned to the bulletin board.  Seven concert tickets.  Sixty-two empty CD cases.  A yearbook with less than ten signatures and braces for four years.  The books don't fit on the bookshelf.  Holden's next to Dorian next to Quentin next to Eleanor next to Meursault and they don't like sharing the tight space, but it's better than being Jane next to Kip next to Conor next to Puck next to Pudge on the floor.  Paperback, hardback, paperback, hardback.  Dust, dust, dust.

Snoopy's growing old.  Conch shell's losing color.  The Circus Circus animals I won in Vegas are feeling like they were cheated out of a good owner.  They're right.  Five year old jeans and ugly sweaters.  Black shirt, gray shirt, navy shirt.  Recycle.  One formal dress.  Zero dances.  Give me a trophy for keeping that record for six years.

Three blue wristbands.  Kill the Cancer Man, Kill the Cancer Man, Kill the Cancer Man.

Dreamcatchers are supposed to make the bad dreams disappear when the sun comes up. Annie sang and I listened.  But the gray days are mushed together, the fog is too hazy, and there's snow outside.  At least defective dreamcatchers are pretty to look at.

Two laps behind on the track.  Shiny new spikes don't give you what you never had. Five laps behind in the pool.  Slow times, sucky starts, dizzy swimming.  Ten minutes late to first period.  Always waking up like a wrong answer.  Maybe it's a reflection of the rest of my life.

The alleyways in Mission smell like foul urine.  A disposable Kodak camera and magical, beautiful, meaningful, illegal graffiti.  Sketchy neighborhood.  Mom and brother locked the car doors.  The pavement felt solid and I felt grounded.  I felt alive.  They told me to hurry.  The photos were never developed.

The dented can of spam in the shipment, the cracked brown egg in the carton.  Different, but damaged.  No one buys different, damaged goods.  Dig a little deeper.  

Dirty mirror, dirty face.  

Dig a little deeper.  

Dirty mouth, dirty hair.  

Dig a little deeper.  

Dirty feet, dirty soul.

D       i  s      c   o     n  n      e  c   t e     d.  

There's a tenor wannabe alto sax in the basement, a broken stringed violin, and a forgotten clarinet.  There's a capo on the carpet in my room.  Change the key.  Lock the door.  Seal it shut.  Lose the key.  Hear the muffled beating inside. Tachycardia. Bradycardia.  Silence.

You think this is a metaphor.