Guest Poet: Freddie Tavakoli

I wish I was a fern // no voice, no song; I wish

(I wish I was a fern) soft green bed

whispers around me—

lullabies. mother fern sings. I ask forgiveness: I ask

for an afterlife—hidden in the shade

tickled by the breeze—I ask, I ask, I ask for

roots, dirt I ask for: leaves, a stem,

bodiless, emotionless,

all soul, with arms outstretched. I ask, all over again,

some form of reliving. (no voice, no song; I wish)

shower drain; bedsheets

I used to think there was no bad way to be near someone

(only getting to the nearness I struggled with), thought if

you found some peace between their arms—that’s a soul

connection.

I can’t sleep the same anymore; list off all the parts of my

self I could burn away until I start dreaming but

my dreams aren’t the same anymore. hallways full of

locked doors; heartbeats, bed creaks, breathing behind each one.

I keep begging myself Don’t knock. I get these

headaches, this chest pain; my eyes twitch. I can’t move my

hands. I hide in the shower trying to remember how skin

feels—scrub out the dirt, the touch, the cedarwood soap

scent.

you ruined the smell of cedarwood.

you ruined the feeling of breath. you

ruined the heartbeat.

I used to be so scared to touch people, to let on how I

craved a human cradle. every week spent suppressing this

search for another womb; I reeked of envy.

I miss sitting on the shower floor and feeling the water burn

my back, pool red beneath me. I didn’t miss it until

yesterday. something about a brand new place makes me

want to introduce my self as its worst parts:

“hello. I will never be full—there’s a

black hole inside of me. I have made 

every part of me the worst part.”

these days I reek of remorse. a bitter lump of acid

burns my tongue whenever I put my legs between someone

else’s. I try to wash away that warmth; soap down my throat, in my

eyes. I whisper to myself some promise that

I will never see you again.

but in my dreams, at the very end of the hallway, I still hear

the shower running. I hear you singing.

I want to run.

I wake up sweating, throat full, eyes burning. I wake up

again and again and again. I stare at walls until I'm back in

that god awful bed again, until I remember how to feel skin

again. I start to rip away the worst parts of me; I am a pile

of rubble, some burnt down house. rotting wood creaks,

dripping down the shower drain.

before bed

lately before bed I’ve been spending thirty-two minutes,

give or take, in front of the bathroom mirror.

I take some time to remember who I told myself I would be by now.

somewhere between naivety and suicide, there is a mountain trying to bridge the gap,

misplaced limbs rot between cracks and clefts. i see it in my chest,

burning a hole through two mountains of my own. something has to go.

lately before bed I've been spending some time in front of the mirror.

I twist my body around and I turn

the lights off and I turn them back on.       nothing ever really changes;

hair in front of my eyes, couldn’t tell you how my face moves.

don’t know what a mirror means anymore.

somehow I find myself sitting on the bedroom floor.

I lie face up on the carpet, sing lullabies to the crack in the ceiling.

note: crack is growing overnight; not much difference between ceiling and

mirror. somewhere between naivety and suicide there is an endless sky

and this crack keeps growing in it, mountain keeps pushing on it, won’t stop

until the whole picture caves in and all that’s left is suicide. don’t bother looking up, or anywhere.

lately before bed I've been reading too much Camus.

i flip through pages until the words just make this awful

humming noise.     after a while each letter carves itself into a face

staring back at me, waiting for something.

i remake myself in circles, hamster on a wheel, sisyphus.

lately I’ve been putting the book down, turning off the light,

and waiting.             see faces in the darkness.

note: familiar but not welcoming. don’t bother dreaming.

I wake up the next morning.

the room never gets cleaner.

car’s been making this weeping noise

lately, something like my grandmother’s lullaby.

hard not to fall asleep

at red lights lately. the car keeps getting messier.

I drive in a circle and go back to the same room I swear

I cleaned last night. too busy with the face in the mirror? too busy climbing the mountain.

note: laying on the floor worsens chest pain; so does trying to get up.

at the top, at the bottom, sisyphus will not be happy. singing, carving,

I remake myself in circles. don’t bother pretending.

lately before bed I've been hearing voices saying my name. over and over

and over it’s the same name, different voices

every night.   at first it sounded like a lullaby, string of kisses,

some faith in this reflection, its youth. lately it’s been losing its meaning.

somewhere between naivety and suicide, I realized

none of it was ever really

worth the trouble.