Shame Is an Ocean I Swim Across

by Mary Lambert

  away—

  like a bag of soccer balls, slowly

  dumping out of a mesh bag into outer space

  it is the most curious thing

  my body

  does not exist

  from time to time

  dad

  what a terrible trick

  Thoughts During Panic

  flowerpots / crashing methodically / cartoon birds & big eyes / my optic

  nerve / stuttering / you hate me / everyone hates me / a village

  somewhere, hates me / I am swallowed / I am swallowing /

  A memory horror / dirty hands / bad hands / greedy / the

  coffin of my mind / and / gray matter / whispering /

  short fires / mud of guilt / whispers again / kill

  yourself / calm down / you are taking up /

  too much space / overdramatic / making

  it worse / drink something / but don’t /

  feed the demon / I will ruin the day /

  I will ruin you / don’t look at me /

  shame / shame on me / hide /

  find a dark / space / bury

  myself in blankets / turn

  off the lights / I will

  sleep until you’re

  all dead / always

  feel like a kid /

  hear my mom

  “she just

  needs a

  nap”

  At 9:15 p.m. in a Small Bar in Pennsylvania

  for Donald Trump

  Trauma walks into a bar, orders a whiskey neat

  All hungry-eyed boring holes through my dress,

  I am numb and cannot turn away when he snaps

  a dove neck in half, does not flinch.

  All hungry-eyed boring holes through my dress,

  I cannot shake the desire for literal murder, after all,

  a dove neck in half does not flinch.

  At 9:15 p.m., I begin the 23rd poem about my rape

  I cannot shake the desire for literal murder, after all,

  every woman has written this story:

  At 9:15 p.m., I begin the 23rd poem about my rape.

  I begin it with: Violation is a man with nice teeth

  Every woman has written this story:

  Trauma walks into a bar, orders a whiskey neat

  Begin it with: Violation is a man with nice teeth,

  snaps a dove neck in half, does not flinch

  It Does Not End

  Dear nineteen-year-old self,

  I hear you whispering to that flashing black star.

  yes, you are ugly in that nightgown.

  you are ugly in that silver moon night,

  crookedly holding a margarita.

  you are as ugly as the day you were born.

  as ugly as a field of tulips bursting red

  as ugly as glittering snow on evergreens

  as ugly as laughter.

  mary, do you understand what I am saying?

  you are a creation, a gift.

  tell them you were born for this life.

  tell them your heart is a bludgeoned castle,

  tell them you’ve got room, you’ve got safe stone.

  when they say that you laugh too much,

  tell them that your laughter is a skeleton key.

  you laugh because you’ve seen so much dying.

  you laugh because living is an absurd joy.

  to laugh is to be grateful for salt

  for sweat, for crying. you know this.

  mary, I know that the kitchen linoleum

  feels like an answer to a puzzle.

  I know you lay on it, chain-smoking, wishing

  you were a supporting actor in someone else’s life

  or at the very least, a chipping floor.

  something that stays in place; something not girl.

  mary, stop trying to die.

  I know sometimes you feel less than human

  more like an unknown planet no one cares about

  more like hot guilt

  more like a catalog of trauma

  mary, stop trying to die.

  there is nothing better

  than looking into the mirror

  to discover infinite doors.

  to witness your own bloom.

  you are the best version of this story.

  we’re all waiting for you.

  FOUR

  Bless this whole shit show

  Spring Is Here!

  i didn’t leave my bed today because

  everything is so wonderful

  just kidding i didn’t leave my bed today

  because i am depressed.

  my friend Doc said be ugly and love it

  i stay up until 7 a.m. watching porn and writing

  emails to people i wish would love me back. i have

  money everywhere but i don’t collect it, it just sits in

  “various accounts” & inner child me screams

  about ice cream

  inner child me screams about fish sticks and corn

  dogs & why don’t i have a boyfriend. inner

  child me is also obsessed with death. Dear

  blood, don’t jump yet. Dear blood, I love you,

  you are ugly, I love you.

  Delicate Magic/Unhelpful Skills

  I used to hear the word “love”

  as in, “love will get you through

  thirty years of marriage or

  to the other side of IKEA”

  but I thought it meant

  whatever I need to be

  to another person

  whichever leg I need to hack

  or habit forgotten,

  I will kiss all your

  empty cups

  with bright lipstick, with a million

  mattresses, with a spoonful

  of teeth, will spill

  over myself onto

  myself for you

  or, would you

  rather me with blonde hair in the winter?

  I can acrobat myself into you? is that love?

  or is that just

  some kind of space filled with space

  like a

  shadowkiss

  or a dog holding its own leash or

  a phantom tongue

  stuck to a memory of winter

  you asked me why I was crying once

  while I was spiraling in shame

  all I could get out was

  I don’t know how much of me

  is just space for you

  I Don’t Think I’ve Ever Been So Lonely

  I hate you. the burden of your leaving. I hate you so much. I hate that you left that stupid couch. left me to navigate the housefire scared and alone, you didn’t call me back. I forgot what your face looks like, you know. I forgot the shape of your teeth. the wide grin of joy I used to kiss.

  I was a fucked-up bird. dead on the road trying to be better every day. I thought I almost got there. I thought I could be an angel. I lie next to the fireplace alone now and I hate it. I hate your windowed eyes. I hate the way you left. I hate the way you left the house, you left it so pristine. I walked with you in the woods, to the market, tried to match your pace. I could never keep up. I was always the shit show, a drunken morning. always trying to olympic pole vault to meet you there—

  I don’t want you anymore.

  You are dead to me, the cat is dead, I am a widow, I am a windowless

  room, a hazard to all, to you. an ache of forgetting, a stupid whisper, the fervent beating of your ghost heart in the hall, a vial of lavender, your things are still here, my music is too loud. I smelled like a waste to you, I was so unclean, so dangerous, running from myself to get to you. look at this wreck, this mess, the complete disaster that love makes, turns two good people into one epitaph, god, I hope I forget you soon.

  Forensics

  I have begun making a list of all the things you’ve left unearthed for me to discover after you moved out. you left while I was gone & you have not le
ft a note. you have not left a text or any otherworldly space message that has been invented. There is no psychic trill in between my ears, no email. I have not been able to see you or hear you or touch you for weeks, I only have little clues sprinkled around the house like a torturous horror film. I am not laughing. I am screaming at your couch in the basement. HOW COULD YOU LEAVE ME. Do you hear me?? I think that you are not that cruel. you left one book for me in the kitchen with my name on it: a french dictionary. this is the only handwritten thing left.

  you left the incense, your key, the garage door opener. you half made the bed—no sheet, pillowcases off. shuffled the furniture around so your stuff missing wouldn’t be so glaringly obvious, took paintings and hung other ones so the walls wouldn’t be bare. left one brown mug with turquoise inside it because you know it was my favorite, you left the bear jar because I drank out of it the day we met, you left the slimy red pepper in the drawer because I promised I’d take it out, you left the green powder in the fridge for safety, you took all the butter knives, left the games, took your good plates, left me the flower ones, all the tea, you left me, I can’t move, the bed is so cold.

  Nighttime Activities with a New Person

  clutch. breath as hunger. closer. more.

  electric palm, the Right spot

  nails into your back. soft. hipkiss. a wish for more hands.

  all of your mouths wrapped around all of my mouths

  hard. guiding you, guiding me, little bites,

  wild teeth, warm neck, pull, tremor, pull again

  the part where your lips are a city

  your lips are a city and I am a gasping wonder

  your lips are a city and I am hushed

  your lips are a city and I am a choir of yes

  I am a choir of oh, fuck

  of how do you know

  how do you know how to do this thing to my body

  my body, nails indented like crescent moons,

  the pulpit of a greedy mouth

  the sweat. my thighs. undone. held breath.

  clutch again. eyes closed.

  eyes open.

  Margaritas

  My first collection of poetry was titled,

  500 Tips for Fat Girls

  It was meant as a sarcastic jab to our thin-obsessed culture

  If I had a do-over, I would call it

  500 Tips for Being a Human

  Because when the press asked about it—they said,

  “So what ARE the tips?”

  And sometimes I would laugh

  and I would say “MARGARITAS”

  but really I wanted to say

  No, I don’t have any advice

  (aside from always put chips in your sandwich)

  Honestly? Any advice about being fat is tragic

  being fat should just mean that you get more awesome chairs!

  that you get more hugs!

  I watch TV shows with fat characters

  Hoping for the story that never comes

  The fat ladies are always apologizing for their size

  They are never getting fucked

  They are looking at donuts longingly

  I want to watch the fat lady win

  I want her to stop apologizing for being fat

  I wish I could say: Hey, perfect angel cutie pie:

  You don’t owe anyone shit.

  Stop apologizing for who you are.

  Go eat a fucking sandwich and throw your scale away

  Work out if you want to, lay on the couch if you want to

  No one else lives in your body

  You are enough, as you are, today.

  God Damn You, Sarah McLachlan

  sometimes when i cry, i start to cry harder

  simply because i am crying or

  i cry because i know that in the world somewhere there are perfect little girls that are wearing fun tutus and singing christmas songs or because there are actual

  shar-pei puppies that look like rolled-up towels

  or because on the internet you can find

  pictures of pigs in rainboots

  because sarah mclachlan comes onto my TV and sings to animals who don’t have homes and

  i cry because they call me fat even though i am fat and most of the time i don’t care but some of the time i do care because a word is just a word until it is not just a word,

  it is a weapon.

  i cry when there is no end and i cry because there is an end and i cry because you love me so well and i cry because i gave my love to other people before you and i cry because i used to cry alone, because i wanted to die, and then i cry harder because your shoulder is so soft, i cry because the sunset is so beautiful on the connecticut river, i cry because i am scared i am losing my mind, i cry because i’m on meds, or because i forgot my meds, or i’m crying for the fact i’m crying because i forgot my meds and does this mean i am actually myself, and i’m crying because i am not actually myself, or i’m crying because maybe i am myself and that doesn’t feel like enough

  i cry because i’m human and i’m connected and there is immense sadness in the world. i cry because humanity is frightening. because one person consumed with self-hatred and armed with one gun can kill an entire room of people. i cry because shame propels so many of us. i cry because so many people forget how important it is to cry, are made to feel weak when they do. i cry because i want to close my eyes to the world. i cry because i can’t.

  and i cry because there is also good. there is also chocolate cake and love and harry potter and the brilliant gasps of magic of holding a hand and also hammocks! i love hammocks! there are also first kisses and second kisses and love letters!

  i cry because it is late in the summer, and all the fireflies are winking at me and the moon is out and it wants nothing from me.

  i cry because i am full now and sure and say yes when i mean yes and no when i mean no and can love you with all of my breath, with all of my yes. i cry because i stand on the cliff of humanity’s magic, and i don’t want to jump anymore.

  i cry because i am so well,

  because i live so well

  and how could one person

  possibly be so fortunate

  to live with all of this light

  Today I Bought a Dream Journal to Be Less Sad, Am Still Sad but with Dream Journal

  In the dream, I’m weak, standing on a lunch table, hoarse and screaming repeatedly, “feel something!”

  to an empty cafeteria

  Have you tried apple cider vinegar or rhodiola or lamotrigine or tomatoes from the garden

  a slit opens up where I once cut myself and a flood of white birds race, keep crashing into a mural of the mascot, a whale, my heart

  meditation apps or this book about mania or my friend is a counselor or the ocean or crystals or you’re not alone

  tiny wings, rapid and panicked and hopeful, scream from my wrists in between heaving sobs, turn into a claylike powder at impact

  a cabin in the woods or service animals my friend has a rat even or call your sister in japan or light candles or write it out

  no one is there and the birds keep coming and dying and the house of dirt keeps growing along the wall, I can’t see the mural, it’s my fault

  watch videos of survivors or go for a walk or pilates or call your friends back we miss you

  the dirt looks like brown sugar now, is the size of my sparkling grief, covers the whale, I don’t even have my palms open, giving up

  journaling or steamed greens or tarot cards or have you tried not wanting to die so much

  Conversations with My Mother in Places I’ve Lived

  Backyard of the Yellow House, 1997

  This isn’t what love looks like.

  I just want you to know that.

  I know, Mom.

  The Humphrey, on the phone, 2011

  I cried for nine hours straight.

  Will you please get back on medication?

  I’ll think about it.

  South E
verett, on the phone, 2007

  I feel too much. I feel everything. I’m going crazy.

  Why don’t you come home? You don’t look well.

  She takes care of me. I take care of her too.

  Dad’s Third Eviction, 1995

  The dog next door is trying to kill me, I think.

  Your father is worse.

  I know.

  Katie’s Couch, on the phone, 2010

  You’re drinking a lot, Mary.

  I’m training for my birthday. Birthdays are like the drinking Olympics.

  Stop trying to make me laugh.

  Nassau House, 2009

  I’m happy for you. The floors are wood, even.

  And everyone gets their own room?

  Yes, and a guest bedroom. For if you ever need any help.

  Massachusetts, on the phone, 2016

  But this is my home now. Why are you crying? I visit all the time!

  You are so far away.

  It Is Time to Eat Something Other Than Pizza and Tequila

  After a mostly sedentary two weeks of intermittent crying and listening to Tori Amos, I have decided to venture out as a fragile sad queer among the nighttime college babes and go to the grocery store. It is time to stop crying.

  At the four-way stop after the bike path on Maple, there are a few streets that connect the farms into town. Sorry if I’m not explaining it well, I’ve never done this by myself. She usually tells the directions part. There is a cucumber farm around there I think, something aromatic. I remember her liking the way that it smelled. I remember the night we had to pull over because the moon was so rich and orange and full of love. We stood holding hands in silence, being welcomely swallowed by the open night, the smell of cucumbers, the last twilight of summer still warm on our cheeks. As I drive by tonight, the road reminds me. The stars start whispering,