lightsreflectinginmyeyes,andIcatchmyself living.Youareall-consuming.Everytime Ihearyourbusmusic,orbaywaves,orbustling bodies,Iturnsofastit'sliketheconcrete snaps.It’strue–youhaveblindedmejust enough-yourfogafilterover grey-tinted chaos,buton thewarm days,yoursunshine feels like velvet.Blinking in and out behindclouds,likethesun followsyourwaves ormy heartbeat.You are more preciousto methan everystone foundinthestreetnamesin DiamondHeights,moretwisted up in my heartstrings than Lombard,moreembedded into mylifethan yourown brick cisterns.YouareintheclothesI wear,thewayIstylemyhair,the wordsIspeak.Youareintheways Iwalk,thewaysItalk,myability toclimbpeaks.YouaremyBeach Blanket, my Babylon, the recipientofallmyloveletters, DearSanFrancisco.
Itfeelslikeahandsqueezing wantingbodiesslippingattheseams
Iwanttorelax drownouteverywaveinmymind untilmybrainsoundslikeanuntunedradio instead Iam remindedhoweasyitistofeelboth violentandviolated hopefulandhorrified
Iwanttorelax wanttolaugh wanttogobacktoflowers,tuckedbehindmyear
Mystomachisroiling
Ifeeleverysecondof2Dgoreaslitersofhydrochloricacid Iam squirminginmyseat trappedbymyinabilitytorecognizemyautonomy
Islam theflashinglightsshutwithjustenoughforcetofeelpowerful aeranhourspentscrollingthroughconstantremindersthatIam powerless
Igooutside trytoli myhead, letSanFranciscofalsesummertimere-singmymelody ButIhavetolookdownsoasnottotripoverbodiesboundtopavement
Doyoulovethem asIdo? Areyouboundtothesepeople boundtohorror tohelplessness tohope?
andmygrandmother.Iwroteletterstobothofmy parents,copyingdownapoem Ihadwrittenearlier thatweekintothemarginsofmymom’s.Butthe mostimportantletterIwrotewastheoneIwroteto myself.Iwrotetoten-year-oldmeinlong-form prose poetry,andItoldherthatIdidit.Eleven-year-old me,diagnosedwithBenignRolandicEpilepsyayear earlier–aform ofepilepsythatcausesseizuresin sleepingchildren–couldnotgotosleepovers,sleep onthetopbunk,orlockthedoorwhilesheshowered. ItoldherthatIwasdefyingadiagnosisthathadkept eyesonherconstantly.IwrotetoherthatIwassleepinginahammock,andit’snotascomfortableasshe alwaysthought,butnoonewaswatchingme.Itold twelve-year-oldmetosayyes,evenifitwasscary.I toldherthatsayingyesgotmetomyownroom again,boardingschoolinVermont,andmydriver's license,despitewhatcouldhavebeenapermanent disability.Iwroteonslightlydamppaperthatherdefiance,herunwillingnesstobudgeon herunderstandingofherillness–onherunderstandingofherself,hasgotten hertothingsshehad onceonly dreamedofinfit-riddensleep.Itoldherthattheanti-anxietybreathingexercisesshespenthourspracticingunderthecoverskeptmecalm whenmyflashlightdiedinthenight,20feetfrom mycampsite.I toldherthatherfocusanddeterminationguidedher backtoherhammockwhenhervisioncouldnot.As Iwrotetothegirlunderthecovers,shiveringlightly undermysleepingbag,Ibegantounderstandher again.Ibegantounderstandmyself.
