Depression & Other Magic Tricks

by Sabrina Benaim

  the inside of my heart is covered in stucco scales.

  my father has a crocodile smile -

  a flawless flash of shiny distraction to keep you

  from finding the bodies he’s left behind.

  but if you look close enough, the evidence lies

  in the residue between his teeth.

  i have been told my tongue should come with a warning

  of blunt force trauma. it’s true, there are nights

  i wear nothing but a blood-stained smirk to veil my secrets.

  there are nights my smile is the simple act of baring my teeth.

  i am just like my father,

  and if it weren’t for my mother,

  i would not know how to take responsibility

  for the bite i bear when i wear the crocodile smile.

  because there are nights i cannot help myself;

  when the full moon howls,

  i howl back.

  i am the daughter of nature versus nurture.

  each verse for my father is a love letter to my mother.

  my mother the sparrow.

  my mother the nest.

  my mother the branches.

  my mother the leaves.

  my mother the tree who cut and whittled herself to build me

  a boat offering safe passage.

  my eyes watch our slow sailing reflection in the water.

  in its stillness, it’s almost impossible to tell

  if the tiny yellow lights scattered across its surface are

  mirrored stars or crocodile eyes,

  but my basic instincts are well acquainted with the sensation

  of nature’s gaze fixated on me;

  when my father tells me i am beautiful,

  i always hope it’s because i remind him of my mother.

  single

  is

  unshaven legs

  same flannel for a week

  not checking in

  not being checked on

  cheese and crackers for dinner

  Skittles bought drunk at 3am for breakfast

  sweatpants

  no pants

  no bra

  clean laundry in a pile at the end of the bed

  chocolate in bed

  movies in bed

  tv in bed

  bad tv in bed

  books in bed

  writing in bed

  texting in bed

  phone calls in bed

  not answering phone calls in bed

  dreaming of not being in bed, in bed

  single is everything in bed

  everything

  but company

  the loneliest sweet potato

  i am at the grocery store because i feel sad. i feel sad because nobody is in love with me. nobody is in love with me but everybody loves me. everybody loves me because i’m good at making people feel good. i’m good at making people feel good because i have had a lot of practice on myself. practice on myself because i feel sad a lot. i feel sad a lot, but when i make people feel good, i feel good for a little bit. i feel good for a little bit, until i get lonely. i get lonely and i am uncomfortable in my lonely. at the grocery store i practice trying to make myself feel good by pretending i am a regular person buying her groceries & not a very sad person trying to distract herself from crying. crying gives me a headache. headaches make me want to crawl into bed. crawling into bed is what sad people do. what sad people do when they are lonely looks a lot like me at the grocery store. at the grocery store, i feel sad but i look just like everybody else while picking out avocados. or lemons. items no one refers to as comfort food. comfort food makes me want to crawl into bed. crawling into bed reminds me of two things: i am sad & i am alone. i am alone, in the grocery store, moving slow in the condiment aisle. in the condiment aisle important decisions are made & everybody knows it is perfectly acceptable to stand around for too long. stand around for too long & i will begin to tap dance. tap dance lonely in the condiment aisle is a great title for a book, i think, as i wait in line to reach the cashier. the cashier seems surprised when i ask her how her night is going. her night is going okay, she says. she says nothing else, except: cash, credit, or debit? she waves goodbye. goodbye is the saddest word i know. the saddest word you know is my name. my name walks around at the grocery store & feels less sad. less sad, because at the grocery store, at least nobody knows there is nobody in love with me.

  that awkward moment

  when

  October

  uses his hands

  to make shadow puppets

  against the supermoon:

  a dog…a butterfly…

  & all

  i can think

  is

  what is the moon

  if not a magician

  all i can think

  is

  the night sky is a lid

  with pinholes

  all i can think

  is

  his hands

  will never

  hold my body

  holy

  as a prayer

  between them.

  minnows

  i have minnows in my stomach.

  i swallowed them singing to you underwater.

  you once told me as a child,

  you seldom remembered to feed your fish.

  my body is a fishbowl i have caught you watching.

  you can thank my ballet training for teaching me

  how to hold my body

  like a champagne flute in the hand of a debutante.

  i started drinking again to control my inside tides.

  i continue drinking to keep the minnows alive.

  i have minnows in my stomach.

  at first, i thought they were butterflies.

  the butterflies turned out to be your hands making shadows.

  remember

  that night we fell asleep with the candles burning?

  the school of flickering light that swam across the wall -

  i imagined i was inside of an aquarium exhibition

  featuring the fish inside of you. they were

  beautiful.

  i have minnows in my stomach.

  they are hungry.

  starving.

  is it that you are forgetful or sadistic?

  i have minnows in my stomach that are going to die soon.

  i’ve turned the top two chambers of my heart into a mausoleum

  in anticipation. engraved each tiny tombstone with my fingernail,

  i gave each fish its own nickname.

  —

  i had minnows in my stomach.

  there is a stillness now.

  a small condolence:

  their face down float

  was the closest they ever came to being

  butterflies.

  —

  it’s my twenty-sixth birthday.

  he arrives to my quasi-adult potluck dinner party

  holding three styrofoam containers of seaweed salad

  from the sushi spot

  on the corner.

  he says:

  little lady,

  i’m sorry it took me so long to get here.

  i hope i’m not too late for the party.

  magic trick 001

  the girl gets carried away.

  she is the sugar cube,

  love is the cup of

  darjeeling - she

  dissolves,

  faster

  than

  you

  think

  she

  will.

  (i)

  i drink my coffee black. every morning. i like how looking at you

  makes me feel. twice i asked to kiss you. the second time, there was

  a lump in my throat. i like to believe it was a metaphor. a plain

  tumor is all it was. i have woken up

  looked in the mirror & thought damn i look good

  today. if i am late it is because i don’t know


  how to plan time.

  cut to me blushing. laughing, of course. we were

  no full moon. in my poems you are the dream of you.

  the falling stars are just glitter just thousands of tiny LED lights

  poured down from the sky. that July was a fire that minded its own

  business. the following June was just thirty days the moon was

  a strawberry. it wasn’t the drugs the shadows on the ceiling

  weren’t dancing again.

  i was walking backwards when i met you. you are not the first

  boy who i wrote into existence, or loved.

  that thought unties my shoelaces.

  once, we were a crescent moon, weightless as a smile.

  i love you. still. i’m not sorry. i don’t want to write about you any-

  more. let’s see how long we can go without talking. this time,

  if we really try, maybe i will forget your birthday. i miss you, but

  i don’t wish you were here.

  (ii)

  you don’t like coffee. you like what it does to your body,

  you like the way coffee makes your body feel. so you take your cream

  & sugar with coffee. i’m not sure why you kissed me back

  the first time. i suspect you

  liked what it did to your body; you

  liked the way my kiss made your body

  feel. once. i let you wrap your palms around my neck

  to feel the tumor ride my throat like an elevator.

  you wear sweat shorts & i still want to fuck you. once.

  you gave me a bouquet of pink roses or was it a fury of

  your puckered lips? when your elbow found mine in that crowd

  after a year of our mouths not speaking i was not happy to see you i was

  relieved. once you said a person is either

  a peacekeeper or a pot stirrer. we both know

  which i am. i bet you think you’re a peacekeeper. i bet

  you think magicians don’t exist.

  you are the first dizzy wind spell to trip my tornado.

  once, you smiled in my direction & balloon on the loose

  there i went so high i forgot which came first you or the dream

  of you.

  you told me, once, after work, you took the bus all the way

  west to watch the sunset, only to miss it. you said

  you were so glad you made it to me on time.

  if you came back, i would not ask why.

  you may say none of this ever happened.

  so, I’m talking to depression…

  & i’m like blah blah blah whatever sabrina

  who? i am whatever you last called me in my head

  y’know? except i’m not nothing

  i have a heavy pulse which is a kind

  of thing like a zip a dee doo dah

  between my orgasms i try not to cry i laugh

  at all the jokes my friends say to me on my birthday

  i ask my grandmother for an apple pie i draw

  a lot of lines they don’t mean a thing to you

  you are an invisible bone that i

  caught & can’t stop writing poems about

  i mean living (ha!) i am

  the strangest of days same as you

  who cares i’m just trying to be less predictable

  anyway you slip me a fog you are molasses

  or something like molasses whatever i am

  softer than i think you are even if i have

  a mouth like a smoking

  gun that does not

  know where

  the bullets

  went

  girl be side you

  the girl sitting

  diagonally

  across from me

  on the subway

  let’s call her curly hair

  is carrying

  a small bouquet

  of lavender

  wrapped in

  brown paper

  held together

  by a neat twine bow

  curly hair is watching

  the girl standing

  diagonally

  across from her

  let’s call her crimson lipstick

  do the crossword

  crimson lipstick is wearing

  headphones

  & holding

  an enviable focus

  in her eyes

  which are

  entirely absorbed

  in the puzzle

  sitting

  curly hair

  with the purple flowers

  has sad ladybug eyes

  & each time

  we reach a station

  they search

  frantically

  the platform

  of waiting-to-be-passengers

  curly hair gets off the train

  with crimson lipstick

  at the same

  stop

  they never

  make eye contact

  i don’t know how to connect in a world like this;

  in times like these,

  where i can’t even speak about myself in first person.

  a plain truth

  on the days i wake up

  & my name is a euphemism

  for depressed, or anxious, or whatever;

  i drink my coffee while the inanimate objects

  in my apartment talk at me.

  i do not try to make out anything they are saying.

  i cannot tell you the number of times i put my hair up

  into a bun only to take it right back down

  because i am afraid of the kink the elastic will leave. it’s

  exhausting. what they don’t tell you about self-care,

  that it can make you feel like you are the coach,

  the captain, & every.other.player.

  oh, & the mascot.

  it can make you feel especially like the mascot.

  magic trick 002

  the girl learns to fly.

  she is a fish.

  the hook is in the water.

  she willingly thrusts her body onto the hook

  all for a better look at the stars.

  dear Beyoncé (I)

  why is it all so heavy…why does my heart insist on being a carriage of arms…happiness a bag of sugar too big for my bird bones…will Kentucky always be there…a folded faded love note in my every back pocket…put my pen to paper the first thing to come out is yesterday’s name…the inelegant haunt of memory…i just want to be free… is it okay if my definition of free is yet to be determined…when the sky fell…you would think i would have run…i stood cemented in the relief there was nowhere else to go…is that freedom…is sleep time travel…is time a sleeping language…will time tell…why are our bodies sandcastle clocks built with hands in perpetual prayer to slow the dissolve of time…do the clocks know their only job is to evenly measure out our lifespans…do the stars know they are ghosts the way we know we might never be…& where are our wings…

  how to unfold a memory // the kentucky heartbreak shuffle

  a wink & a crooked smile. chorus of cracking knuckles: a concert of injuries. the fireflies, bats, June bugs, & i; we all saw you watching. the crickets chirped grateful for the angel’s share, like gawdamn, this air tastes delicious.

  speaking of bourbon, Kentucky was barrels on barrels. cornmeal fried catfish, clocks with roman numerals, & the street lamps. ooh, the street lamps. wrap around porches, the porch swings, the American flag - i know, there is nothing romantic about colonialism, but there was something about the architecture that whispered secret sticky sweet nothings. i was stuck in the roundabout. i was inside looking out, finally.

  see, i had been going in circles swallowing words. dizzy, i had to lie down before the church. at midnight, i had to lay time flat & still the treetops. fireflies, bats, June bugs & i, we all stood watching the ghost ships of light sail the sea-sky.

  silent treatment: the fantastic
devastation of unwanted silence. that heavy slink; how it hangs with purpose; mean, easy. my tongue, well trained in the sit-still,

  it’s my hands that can’t keep a secret. my legs, too eager to run into the music,

  i went looking for our bridge to burn. & a river bank to drown the flames, stifle the heat. Kentucky was hot; all bare foot & blue flame. i wouldn’t say i could see the music, but the music could see me; bare bone wind chime. bare skin dunked in: swimming pool day dreams. full moon feelings. that can’t take my eyes off of you. the sticky hands of lust tip-toeing earthquake. it was always & never the right time.

  one might have found me akin to a scoop of ice cream atop soda pop bubbles: light as air, without care for the impending melt.

  i plucked a daisy in Kentucky. it told me that you loved me. i left your love there. there in the dancing around, dancing through, dancing on the spot where i buried my expectations. & the wanting of it all. the truth hurts less when it is not parading around in front of us. love, that great & terrible handsome beast, trace me back to it by a trail of smoke.

  i only doused myself in gasoline when you handed me that match because i was tired of being a metaphor. why is it always about burning?

  in Kentucky, there is a pile of bricks where a bridge could not measure the space between us.

  there is a condition called the rapture of the deep. it occurs when a deep sea diver spends too much time at the bottom of the ocean & cannot tell which way is up. you have always been asleep in a different bed in the same room. Kentucky felt like impossible nostalgia.

  i saw you looking back.

  i remember i saw you looking back because i was

  looking forward.

  my jaw was a clenched fist i could not throw. the truth hurts loudest

  when you toss it around,

  & the echo…the echo is what drives girls like me

  mad with remembering.

  house of cards

  a Radiohead erasure

  I don’t wanna be

  your lover

  how it ends

  Forget about

  the table

  The collapse

  your keys in the

  Kiss good night