I imagine the plug fell out of the wall

On a soft in-breath.

And then slowly,

a magnetic hissing noise

drew out the last breath through plastic tubing

And the room filled slightly with

the faint scent of tomato sandwiches.

I was home, awake.

Screaming at the drywall,

Cursing its eggshell hue,

Refusing the seconds as they passed.

Sickly shaking – the taste of poison in my mouth

Holding tight to the warm sweater,

Slapping my feet on the cool kitchen floor.

My hair standing untamed,

My eyes wide and bloodshot.

When the summer finally drew up the sun

to its twelve-noon position,

baking the Earth through,

I broke out my pasty legs in red biking shorts

And pinned my hair up off my neck.

Sometimes, I'd tell myself to like it.

And summer softened into fall,

I put my head back into books,

I started to speak with intention,

And to listen without my eardrums

tapping on the ugly offbeat.

I liked to smile,

I liked to laugh,

And I brushed my teeth in the mornings.

I started to dance

And started to run.

I flattered my reflection,

With dresses, and shoes, and earrings.

And I've started to stop imagining...

Though I ask not to wade through those boxes,

labeling with sharpie the

"outs" and "ins".

"When I leave," I say, "Then you can move in."

Cold sweats and dead eyes and naps at noon subside.

They slide down my cheeks to the floor

Where they lodge themselves in the floorboards,

And disappear in carpet threads.

Maybe age, maybe distance will make her come to

Or it could be lost among the fog.

Is she holding back?

Maybe not.