White lines in my head
lines lines lines like an empty
notebook like a line
on a mirror, cut
so fucking perfect, so neat, I’m not neat
I’m messy — not ruined
just different just unusual
like the taste like the burn at the top of my nose, deviated
postnasal drip down the back of my throat
like a song to a beat my heartbeat is too fast feel my pulse
in my wrist like a bug trying to dig its way out. don’t come out.
I don’t want that anymore.
like when I smell your cigarettes
on the pages of my journal
and inhale and feel heavy in my gut
thinking how much I would love to grab
you through the shadows the slats make
in the blinds, hold you
see you in your body
just the way you are now — in between –
I wish you would linger.
Is this you now? In the lines?
Yes yes yes
I don’t blame you,
you only come to me as you are
liminal and just out of reach
just up and underneath
© 2023, Georgia-May Stone. All Rights Reserved.