olive trees and screaming skies.

Note: I'm sorry this poem is so sad...I guess this is what happens when I listen to Phoebe Bridgers and write after it (she has beautiful lyrics, but her songs are incredibly sad). 

i don’t understand how she can sing
with her mouth stitched and dry. 
her hands are clasped in a prayer
and i can see the veins in her hands.

they’re like spiderwebs.

she twirls in the midst
of numb nights,
balmy olive trees 
and screaming skies.
old countryside houses
are alive at night with shadows,
rattling windows
and flickering 
kerosene lamps.  

i hate the rising sun
and i hate mornings. 

used records hum
in stacks,
crying beneath the dusty
floorboards of my basement. 
i go about my day 
and stuff my bleeding ears
with paper. 
i grind my teeth 
on blocks of jagged ice
and mop stained floors. 

when the wind whistles to me outside,
i go out and follow it. 
i chase the cold winter air
until i remember her again. 
but then i sit
and cry
and scream
and tear my hair out
because i’m so alone. 

when i get back home,
i walk along the winding 
pebble path that she once 
made for me.

i don’t recall the old summer days,
sticky watermelon juice running down 
our arms,
sleeping under the stars
in sleeping bags on the porch,
catching fireflies
in jars
just to prove that there is light
in darkness. 
i don’t recall her,
her summer dresses
and knitted socks. 
i don’t recall the memories. 
i don’t. 
i don’t. 

i see white rose petals
sprinkled on the ground. 
i pretend to not see them—
they remind me of her—
and i pretend to not think
as i warm up my dinner
and throw it out
without taking a bite. 
i pretend that nothing happened tonight
and i call a friend on my landline.
(hardly anyone uses landlines anymore,
did you know?) 

when the night turns
into darkness,
i curl up in my bed.
thin blankets
and a brick fireplace. 
i let more tears fall from my eyes 
(accidentally, of course)
because i’m freezing 
but too warm. 

i don’t think of her
and i don’t want to.