by Taylor Gregory<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
1983 feels like a fever dream.<\/p>\n
You memorize an unpaid tab,<\/p>\n
an empty glass, fingers running<\/p>\n
across the curve of your breast.<\/p>\n
Under a neon glare, you listen<\/p>\n
to the rasp of heavy breath,<\/p>\n
watch the bloom of purple skin.<\/p>\n
You still hear the snap of bone<\/p>\n
when you drink bourbon;<\/p>\n
you still hide the scar<\/p>\n
from your father at Christmas.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
When it\u2019s cold and you feel an<\/p>\n
unidentified ache in your chest,<\/p>\n
you have learned to light it on fire.<\/p>\n
You find warmth in the slender<\/p>\n
yellow body, some comfort<\/p>\n
in wisps you leave in the dark.<\/p>\n
Maybe it\u2019s that you see<\/p>\n
your reflection in the embers;<\/p>\n
maybe you feel<\/p>\n
a sick kind of pleasure<\/p>\n
when you snuff<\/p>\n
them out.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Your skin is like a paper-lantern:<\/p>\n
in certain lights, you appear<\/p>\n
as a watered-down picture of yourself \u2014<\/p>\n
the colors faded,<\/p>\n
lines dissolved,<\/p>\n
the edge of where you begin<\/p>\n
and end never drawn.<\/p>\n
You have found yourself thinning,<\/p>\n
stretched like the skin on<\/p>\n
your wrists. Underneath,<\/p>\n
your veins run blueish green,<\/p>\n
mapping out the rhythms of your heart.<\/p>\n
Only in this desperation<\/p>\n
can you recognize the pulsing,<\/p>\n
know your own blood,<\/p>\n
return to your origin.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
You came into this world breathless,<\/p>\n
blue-faced, but made your misery<\/p>\n
in the quiet. Here you learned<\/p>\n
your mouth was not made for speaking.<\/p>\n
But there is something strange<\/p>\n
about your silence, a pucker<\/p>\n
in your lips when you form<\/p>\n
syllables you can\u2019t get out.<\/p>\n
There is something<\/p>\n
unnerving about your words \u2014<\/p>\n
the ones that remained unsaid then,<\/p>\n
that still simmer in the<\/p>\n
back of your throat now.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In between vision and reality,<\/p>\n
your face reflects<\/p>\n
in a different mirror.<\/p>\n
Your hands have calloused<\/p>\n
and your bones do not rattle.<\/p>\n
You have learned how deep<\/p>\n
your teeth can cut,<\/p>\n
pulling past layers of tissue,<\/p>\n
tendons, deep-rooted secrets.<\/p>\n
By now, you have heard gravel<\/p>\n
in your voice, known the flint<\/p>\n
you carry in your fingertips.<\/p>\n
Here, you cast a flame,<\/p>\n
throw it to the wind,<\/p>\n
watch it sizzle and smoke<\/p>\n
in the dark.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Taylor Gregory (she\/her) is an MA student at Oklahoma State University. Taylor studies 20th-century British literature, Modernism, and contemporary poetry. Her current research concerns religious transformation in Modernist poetry, specifically the works of T.S. Eliot.<\/span><\/p>\n
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