The Space In Between Reverie and Ruin
I uncovered the sea-foam glass box I buried
underneath my dresser that I meant to keep
my revered belongings in until I turned fifty.
I noticed the glass had a hole in the upper corner
so I traced my fingers along the blurry edge,
nearly slicing my skin, and I noticed my music box.
The pink floral design turned nearly blue
under the green haze, and I imagined
the swirly music box begin to play
“La Vie En Rose” by Edith Piaf.
If only hearing pink bounce off the walls
could turn my dresser to bedsheets,
my mom singing softly under her breath to catch sleep.
She’d caress my youthful hair filling in the gaps
with her fingertips: if only I still felt young.
I noticed next to the music box remained a soap bar
my lover gifted to me: “So you’ll never grow up.”
I told him my mom used to wear floral perfume.
I left it in its open box, the lavender fumes stained
the music box, its waxy remnants surround the edges.
My purple notebook remains filled to the brim
below my music box, my broken mind
turning even more blue. Scribbles of lines
reminding me “You’re running out of time.” I shake
in my sleep, afraid I’ll lose my mom’s voice.
I stare at the copy of The Downward Spiral vinyl on my dresser,
and I could hear the echoes: “Everything is blue in this world.”
I’m too young to become so cold, I want to throw it out.
The world isn’t blue, it’s not, it’s fucking not! I need my mom.
I wish she would sing more
please, I’ve become pinned to my head.
I’ve become completely bedridden and sick
of my ears. I wish she’d tell me it’s okay to let go
of all this blue that’s been pulling me down.
