nulla.
I am desperate and brandished by such public thoughts and I try to find God in everything. Which is to say my conclusions never differ. I am honest, moderately good on such terms I should know what ‘good’ means and if I happen to have forgotten that day, then I am strictly good. I pray in the shower, in my head, consciously, precisely, categorically, which is to say I don’t pray at all. I pretend to have not considered the simple acts of opening shower doors, cafe orders, restaurant menus, my positions in line, lest I not obsess over the horrifying act of falling asleep every evening. I wonder who is more me? That which commits elementary acts or one who thinks before the birth of such thought? I am malnourished, must I open myself up, may my flesh understand the desire for death, may resolution turn to salvation. Time must pass and I want to be good and healing and holy many times over, but who would I be without acknowledgment of my scars, what would my scars be then? I lack a purpose, which means I am human, and I could also be alive and held, so an orange must suffice, peeled by hands untouched and a mouth too clean, lost in the covers of a bed far to small. Who am I now?
When has pleasure absolved me, fed me, nourished me? When have I experienced pleasure at all?
I.
I need to cleave apart my ribcage; would you find me inside? Would you know of desperation or do the claw marks already show themselves? Who am I to write? Does the question mark make the sentence, or do you already know my unfailing confusion? Or Anger. (?) Or Fear? (.) Do you know of my desirable pleasures? Could you write it down for me. (?) Would a notebook be sufficient, are there enough pages, or am I consistently short, do I have any desirable pleasure at all? Is it desirable to you? (!)
My eyes have redden, bruised and scratched, and held between fingertips, wet and squeezed. They are the lonelinest parts of me I have come to know. I have never felt more understood in their presence. Knowledgable in all it passes, memory hardly fading as it contains faces and maps and your favorite buildings, it sits beside itself unknowing of similar company, similar passion and hunger a mere inch away, just as empty. Must I introduce them? What has loneliness done but fester on desire. I fear any hunger might kill you.
II.
Is it possible to fantasize too strongly? By which I dream too much, and my past never became present and the future was always a reaching, self-sustaining possibility, and so I never had a possible, remarkable existence. Maybe I should dream of waking up safe, start at roots, fracture, divide, make myself simple, easily digestible, with an extensive ability to mold, re-create, diminish my capacity and feelings and desires and myself. It would be nice to have two chairs, next to one another, where you could touch my hand under the table and I can turn to you and smile, and you can see food in my teeth because you are close enough, but you simply smile back and move closer. You know I would never hesitate to lean in.
III.
The oxygen hasn’t hit my lungs since I had been seven. The morning was dutiful and so was I, and water was more curteous to nature, more healing, lavishly generous and all-knowing. It was to similar to my mother. Maybe, I knew God after all. I became embarrassed with my name, its utterance failed me, sequestered me into moments of hallway banter and marked water bottles, my shoes squeaked on the way out.
IV.
I could present my hand and by that I mean, I should. I must. I might. You laugh and it ripples and I feel movement near my heart and you start to smile and I wonder what mine would look like next to yours. I think of the stars above us, past the bedroom ceiling, guarded by the sun, and how we have become our own pair of unflinching light. I smiled at once and only desired to take a shower. I never knew how I should act.
V.
I imagine my laughter to ring in my childhood home, my teal bedroom, our empty dining room table. Was it high-pitched, loud where one wished to cover their ears faster, was it ever pleasant to hear? Must I even know the answer to this question? Would you hold me then, pull the jacket over my shoulder and teach me the dilemma of tying my shoe laces? I still must tuck myself into bed every night.
VI.
In my head it is still April and it’s not to late and I can speak clearly and I don’t want to cry, so I must be happy. (?,!) A birth must occur, I should become holy, renewed, sacrifical, but the rain lacks any hunger and silence is my only objective. I must cry now, I have looked in the mirror, and the faces are new in the super market, and the fruit has been bruised and touched and I know such dirtiness, and the lights are flourescent so I must be naked to those around me, and I wonder what my favourite ceral was a decade ago. Must I be polite in my sadness, (?,!,.) can I ruin this for everybody? I seemed to have already ruined me for me.
My memory has become disgustingly indulgent and I appreciate it. I favour moments forgotten when mentioned, lest any knowledge of my desires become too public, might you start to understand me, know the younger me, know of me. May I find regret with you. Shall I reminice once more on our past conversation, would envy be lacking, and I could be led by all that you remember instead. Might my regret be surronded by all I never told you. I am still here.
Your existence was always a fallacy, one of intentional need. As a little girl, love was a cornering concern, a harsh, biting, embarrassing rue where hugging embarked desires to flee and eyes to shut me out. I felt I needed to be protected from love. I never failed to look past intertwined hands, necks, touching foreheads and lips and shoes. Notions of my incompetence were a clear statement, marked by highlighter and covered in white-out, and I never knew what was possible, or rather bitterly, I could not think of myself apart from love. I knew of such raging, bursting emotions vibrantly accompanying many childhood escapades, but questions of my inability, my second-hand nature of fleeing, became my conscious personal identity. My imagination was a dwindling ideology of my impotence, my forthcomings, tantalizing perceptions of my obscurity until moments of regularity seemed impartial, outdated. I grew out of myself before I even had the chance to grow. My identity has come to rest in my irregular confidence, cost-worthy desires that leave me breathless in my weight and biting sores in my mouth, an urge to speak just to feel my mouth overflow and trample into the silence between others. I could pray for [what? I am never particularly sure(?,!,.)] comprehension, possible reconciliation should I ever speak to my younger self, love (!,?). Have I become lethargic in every pleasure?
Oh, how much love I needed to free.
VII.
Sometimes, in brief moments of solidarity, I believed that I am going to save my life a little. A slight pulse between my breasts is a guaranteed breath I can never be angry at for too long. I have another bookshelf to fill.
I must consume myself if I wish to breath (?,!,;).
I could rot in this room forever. (.,!)
I have never been more beautiful.
Oh God, maybe I have always loved. Maybe I always could.
The Olive Press Review 
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