Tactile

I was looking for something tactile

I remember the tile was always cold so

as anxiety rose like bile to my throat, my cheeks,

I laid my body down as though to sleep.

I heard her pause right outside the bathroom door

I wasn't quiet, I'm sure she heard me moan, but

she kept walking and I learned that day

that emotions didn't matter—best to tuck them away

Instead I kept looking for something tactile

because there was no point in having anything to say

no point in giving emotions a name

if the people you love look away

I still look for the tactile

even though I know it's okay

to say when I'm not okay

parents will fuck you up won't they,

when they unintentionally make tile

your only source of solace

while saying you're strong, you'll be okay.

I am as strong as tile today,

and just as easily cracked.

Keeping my pieces together with

omega 3s

therapy

squeezing cats

hugging trees

cuts on fingertips

from metal guitar strings

cuts from paper,

rope burn from yarn

in pursuit of a

pipe dream art career damn near tangible

from comforters providing heat

so tangible it's suffocating,

watching rivulets of sweat

on my arms dance

treasuring every hug

because they feel like acceptance

lips swollen from kisses,

release without shattering,

without tile meeting the head of a hammer,

without feet finding the edge of a cliff

without bleach finding its way down my throat,

without head underwater lungs screaming for drought

stop—