──( the stars glitter above✦ )

[basil!]

today swamp took me on its morning run
and unspooled me for the elements.
the threads faded into walls of golden reed.

guarding that facade of privacy,
i watched the sky fly boundlessly
past our shoddy borders.

when my shoes were muddy and
the beginning of moisture touched my toes,
i turned around and hesitated;

i floundered, broke through the reeds and hurt.

[basil!]

i talk to mom as if i'm daughter.
i practice the words no one else speaks
and bend over empty, get strung dry.
in russian my name is what she chose.

when i'm daughter i feel weak,
i feel guilty, i feel seen;
i talk to mom as if i'm daughter.
i think that i should love her--

(i repeat "i'm sorry" like a broken record.)
(neither of us know what i apologize for.)

my mother is a fragile person
and sometimes i think we're both birds
of downy color, matted feathers,
and eyes that know captivity;

i talk to mom as if i'm daughter.
sometimes i think we stand by
each other like we're twins
and i remember the way i was born.

i do not feel like daughter,
but i forget the parts that die when we are near.

[basil!]

they're stained in red,
these withered hands, these broken eyes;
as they say chaos breeds chaos
i am being consumed, devoured
and everything's useless to me.

i am well aquainted with primal fear.
like a monster i cower, i beckon, i cry.
like a monster i growl and bark and destroy.
howls rip their way out of my mouth;
i think i've forgotten humanity.

[basil!]

i stumble into a tiny, reed-rimmed pond and before i know it my legs are sinking, turning cold from the water. my body follows soon, first my torso and the tips of my fingers and then further and further and futher; cold laps at my neck and covers my mouth; liquid flows into me, through me, across me.
I'm scared of these erratic thoughts my brain tells me, of how it makes me feel physically ill. in the water, i can't move or breathe. i'm helpless to the tide and currents that move me every which way, like a doll tossed to sea. Toys end up in landfills when they're worn through, boring, or broken, and maybe some of them fall to the depths of the ocean and decay there without a single memory of their existence. Plastic takes thousands and thousands of years to break down, but I think i'm more of a stuffed toy, so i wonder how quickly i will fall apart.
it's not like i want this. it's not like i can continue those delusions of mine, the belief in a purpose for endings from my younger years. I still miss wandering the roads with you and planning our death.
but i can't do such things anymore, i can't because now i want and i have promises i've made. it just makes this all the more painful. it makes it unbearable.
i know these are delusions. the water keeps eating me. under those crystal glittering waves, i can't see anything clearly
i cannot even sleep; my body shivers and shakes and begins to disintegrate.
i would cry, but i'm in the ocean already.

[basil!]

I’ll drink it all, the broken shards, the sweet,
Like the misfortunes and the small and big mistakes;
I’ll eat them, eat them well and be so good:
On gasoline and petrichor,
The s*** I run on every day, the me that I can never reach;
I’ll eat it up, soak it all in, feel it all through,
And struggle, writhe, destroy and then— consume.
And all these big boy things, smart boy things,
Real boy things, such shameful things—
Oh, what a lapdog through and through!

[basil!]

My mother tongue, comforting as much as
disconcerting, words that i forget to speak
but that i can understand–
in a gentle, woman’s voice I–
–t curdles and all the nuance loses it–
–self which can’t stand hearing such comforts
— crying into english with its better vocabulary
control of grammar, verbs, but it loses that flavor–
– housewarming, gentle, on my tongue it is bitter
– sweet like that woman i can’t hear and panic
– stricken with love, i yearn for it, my mother–
– ’s tongue.

[basil!]

when i was six or maybe seven
he placed his hand on my canary’s back–
large and reckless, not to threaten
but the bird dropped dead while i was in the shower
and its eyes were open just a crack.
no amount of feather-stroking could have saved its life.

my mom said that he even cried–
just a few tears, ‘cause i have yet to see him sad
and some animalistic instinct pried
my hands apart– on the third death i was just glad
that i had shed no tears at all.

and now i’m tempted, scared i tried
setting this repulsion straight to you–
its not his fault the bird had died
but i want to see you through and through and through.
this animalistic instinct preys on me

to push and tear, to push and pull
to purge and lose the things i can’t.
i lose even the sun to mull
over the sickness, gently planted
to meld with terror, befit fear
As i reach out a large and reckless hand–

its eyes were open just a crack
i couldn’t understand the totality of death
i feel so sick but tears don’t come
it was my fault the bird had died–
no amount of comfort could have saved
some animalistic instinct
not to threaten but i want to see you
i shed no tears at all