celestial coordinates

NASA writes poetically about the science of space – the infinite darkness that we – our celestial little time bomb- are constantly floating through. There are craters on moons that can only be concealed by bigger craters. A collection of impacts unsuccessful in destroying the moon. I have yet to read about the weariness hungover from lunar battles. The moon just keeps being the moon and space still is without oxygen.

I feel myself floating away most days, still tethered to an air supply, still wrapped like plastic bubble wrap in a space suit. But I’m floating up and the air is thinning and I see thousands of tiny hands clawing at me, trying to take pieces of me. They must not realize how I’m already suffocating so if they get too close, I’ll stop breathing all the way.

I like to imagine that I can find my own celestial coordinates. Like a telescopic X-ray of my body, all the craters carved into my body would appear. A story of all my own lunar battles before I dissolved into particles finer than the dust on mars.

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

grit

i think the dragonflies are trying to find me

bring me the grit i’m lacking

they’ve been circling me for days

as i’ve wrapped myself in a cocoon

of beach sand and tears

hiding on my perch

they keep flying right up to my windows

i think maybe they want me to join them in flight

maybe they know i need to find a way to fly

to spread my wings and let the dust of everything

fall from my bones

fall off my body like sand

i think the dragonflies are trying to find me

they won’t leave me

and i’ve never felt so alone

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

 

deboned perch

please – please just stay away. because i feel myself getting vicious. i think you might think i’m pretty – even though you’ve been careful to never outright say it. but my eyes, i think you like them the way you look at them, look into them, are now goldenrod on fire. my body, hunched over like deboned perch. so please, before i find a collection of random bones to substitute my spine and the goldenrod flames turn on you and try to light you on fire, just stay away. you’ve got nothing to offer, nothing you want to share. and i’m left behind like the discarded, peeled skin of perch on the fishing table and i have no problem setting flame to this entire cabin, the shit cabin-empty but the four walls leaning on each other. don’t think i don’t know the impact of just taking out one wall.

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

truth is

truth is…

right now i can’t fucking stand myself. i don’t recognize myself, i feel not like a ghost in my own body – this is me and i really can’t stand it.

truth is…

every time i leave your house in the morning i’m disgusted with myself. not shame or embarrassment, just disgust. like i drank curdled milk… and keep drinking it. and i don’t sleep well and i’m a little hungover and the strain in my voice haunts me the whole day.

you’ve stopped being a muse, my words are waiting for something better, more meaningful, less pitied.

truth is…

i used to know my way out of messes like this. like you. i used to believe there was some greater reason for all this. i think now maybe you’re a clue that i need help out of this mess, because the mess inside has always been there, a dirty pile of clothes just waiting to be set on fire. but instead of some hot blaze i know to run from, it’s more a tiny smoldering cherry that i can’t find to stomp out. so everything is smoking and burning down and i’m just standing there doing nothing. smoking too many cigarettes. saying yes over and over and over for some dumb reason.

truth is…

i can’t fucking stand myself right now. i do blame you a little. i mostly just blame me.

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

compliment

 

somehow when he tells me how sexy i am

it doesn’t feel like a compliment

it feels like an explanation

like a justification for why he’s fucking me

for why i’m in his bed this time…

but i swallow his words the way i try to swallow him, that moment

choking against my tonsils

the confusion scraping against my teeth

he mistakes my moaning, my gagging for

acceptance

he doesn’t realize that when i say

oh baby, when he’s saying goddamn woman,

i’m really saying

i think you’re sexy too –

and i don’t mean that as a compliment

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved