hand in (the cobblestone street seduces) hand. my best lessons giggle in rebellion. we skip. we tumble. we laugh. apply my lipstick and you — follow instructions well — do. you whisper a sweet nothing here and i humor you there.

beautiful traces — darkest cyan — of night will give way to — soft pink — sunrise.

you are darkest cyan and i am soft pink and it is in your nature to give way to me. night must break in the light of dawn.

Spent years tied dockside, West Virginia calls, Jane. Spent years tied dockside, West Virginia calls. Spent years tied dockside, West Virginia. Spent years tied dockside. Spent years tied. Spent years. Spent.

i remember the fun ingredients like:

the sprinkles (yay)

and the frosting (double yay)

i remember the necessary ingredients too:

the eggs (boring)

the milk (boring)

the flour

the sugar (less boring)

the butter

and the baking soda (boring)

and if i forget the necessary ingredients there are substitutes:

applesauce in place of eggs (ew)

water in place of milk (there is no way that tastes good)

oil in place of butter

chocolate chips in place of sprinkles (not as fun but fine)

and i think about the last time i substituted parts of a cake… i think about how everyone smiled and nodded, chewed and swallowed, even mm-ed and ahh-ed (c’mon). i think about how there are only so many things you can substitute before what was once a cake soon becomes a passable lie.

i have put the wet and dry ingredients in separate bowls:

sugar in the wet bowl

eggs in the wet bowl

melted the butter for 46 seconds and put in the wet bowl

water in the wet bowl

gradually sifted flour into the wet bowl

and a beautiful yellow batter emerges (alas) and i get to fold in the sprinkles and even get to lick the spoon and i am — i am missing vanilla extract — (not(never(never will be done))) done!

…

when i moved into this house i went to the store and bought the fun stuff:

candles (so fun)

flowers

heart shaped bath mats (how cute!)

and of course i bought the essentials:

toilet paper (boring)

soap (boring)

salt & pepper

towels

detergent (okay)

it is stuff  like fucking vanilla extract that i always forget. it is that non-fun-non-essential-overpriced-really-boring-but-really-necessary item. that item (feeling) when the moment begs and i meet it empty-handed. that feeling when i spent all this time thinking about:

the wet bowl

and the dry bowl

and the compliments

and i just with i had a substitute for me and i just wish i was even a passable lie and i just wish i had some fucking vanilla extract.

suddenly, i can’t breathe, in noticing i remind myself to inhale and feel my chest resisting to expand. my neck contracts and tightens: air finally causes my ribs to move. i re-enter survival mode as quickly as i left — it seems as soon as i remember, i forget again… how to breathe. my therapist calls it hyper-vigilance.

i was ten years old when i went into my pantry and counted the number of shelves and rows. it was not for no reason… it was crucial… it was part of calculating my route in and out… as quickly as possible. when i decided i was ready to go in i reached first for the brass handle on the paneled-wood door. the keys on the birdhouse rack jangled  fuck but i was in. i planted my feet in front of the six shelves that went up the ten foot journey to the top. my house (belonged to my mother first, she sold it to my father after i moved out, eight years later) had very tall ceilings. six shelves, and shelf three was at my eye level. my target: shelf five. i stretched my little body long and far, my reach almost, almost teased out long enough to meet the jar. i extended again, and surprised myself with my added flexibility maybe i can become a gymnast, my fingertips felt around, and at last i made contact. my toes hurt. kerplunk shit the peanut butter fell directly onto the floor. 

i was eight years old, sitting in an orange-brown reclining chair that had oil spots stained onto it from my dog scout’s husky coat, when i looked across the library (there is a library room in my house) and stared at my sister who was sitting in an identical orange-brown-leather reclining chair. my sister's mouth was full, full of peanut butter. my sister was full too, full of joy and pleasure. curious, i asked “what do you like about peanut butter?” maybe I can understand how to feel full “it’s thick and creamy and is the most delicious thing i’ve ever tasted,”  she responded. (i would spend years liking peanut butter.)

i was twenty years old when i was diagnosed with PTSD on september 23rd, 2024 — my third year of college.

i am now twenty-one years old and my therapist asks me “what do you like about peanut butter?”  i respond, “i never figured out how.”