Featured Poet -  Amelie Lynn Peterson

SAWDUST (AND GHOSTS)

“Sorry” is a reflex. 

It’s the sawdust I can pour in the holes in my world that my brain left behind–

The holes where I forgot my sentences, mid-sentence.

The holes in my otherwise seemingly iron-clad memory banks where my car keys, my wallet, my to-do list and what day it is slipped through, soundlessly.

On any given day,

I can either explain myself, or make fun of myself.

Either way, I end up perpetually apologizing for existing.

My mind is a chaotic, high-pressure fountain of random, jumbled chunks of information 

that never turns off–

even (and especially when) I’m trying to sleep.

I’m told to suck it up, shut up, and try harder

up until the point at which I falter.

When I have exhausted every avenue and mechanism I know of 

in my attempts to be less like me

(in order to achieve being worthy),

I throw my hands in the air and walk away.

In many contexts throughout life, deciding the moment at which I abandoned ship

was the only variable I truly had the final say in.

Every day that I choose to get out of bed, I’m also choosing to face the shame 

that comes with having a multidimensional disorder 

embarrassing enough to be well past the point of being a fashion statement.

I can’t keep my schizoaffective disorder tucked away in a back pocket until the perfect moment when the stars align, and having a neurodivergent brain is suddenly cool–

like having striped, multicolored tail feathers when everyone else’s are white.

My diagnoses aren’t charms on a bracelet I can remove when the occasion isn’t quite right.

Whether or not I acknowledge them, with or without my consent, my fatal cocktail of disorders and mental illnesses will always make its presence known.

‘Sorry’ sits on my pillow every night

It perches on my shoulder each waking moment–

a heavy, flightless bird…

Sorry digs its talons into me,

Making sure I don’t forget [that to any given person in any given context]:

I’ll never be quite worth the extra care required to keep me.

‘Sorry’ is the caulking I can bang into the cracks I can’t fix fast enough.

It’s the fast-acting, quickly-dissolving tablet of stale sugar I can pop into the open mouths 

of those around me (who are only human), 

who occasionally lose their patience with my deficits.

Sorry works in the slots where I’m too much [in the wrong places] to fit

It’s the buttercream rose on the multilayered dysfunction cake I was handed, day 1

(then expected to serve only in small portions at a time…

only to certain guests whose cholesterol was low enough to take the hit.)

Sorry is the bucket of water I can throw on a fire when there’s nothing else handy. 

It’s the ghost I can grab and use as a mop for my messes.

It’s the only universally accepted explanation for why I can’t make my disabilities fit on a charm bracelet.

Sorry is always there, whether or not I say it out loud.

For people like me, 

It’s the period at the end of the statement,

“I am.”

(NEVER) LESS THAN FINE

I’ve learned to never be less than “fine,”

Giving an automated response to an automated greeting disguised as a question.

It's like answering a survey after a phone call,

Or pushing 'End' when a recording says, 

Press ‘1’ for more options.

'1' was never an option;

I’m never less than “fine.”

As an inadvertent cog in the wheel

That is a Systematic Depersonalization ruled by automated greetings,

The only way to feel any less than defenseless

Is to be a walking answering machine.

"How are you?"

"How’s it going?"

“Good,” I say.

"Not bad,” I say.

And sometimes, I say Fine–

the short, sweet answers expected,

that fit so well into the small, blank spaces

they have set away in their head for my responses 

long before they approach me.

I’m always ready to hand out the pre-recorded answers; 

They go over easy and quick, like roasted pumpkin seeds or Skittles.

They're small, easy to stick in a pocket

and painlessly swallowed, without ketchup on top

or a chaser to follow.

Most others don’t care if a smile is real—

Just that I flex my zygomaticus major within 3 to 5 business days.

They don’t care if I lie through my teeth, as long as my tone of voice is pleasant 

and deviates slightly in pitch when I speak.

They don’t care what the medicine’s made of—

just that it’s given on time, performs its duty as expected, 

and doesn’t cause heartburn.

When I’ve made the mistake

of being too truthful

(if and when I was any less than fine),

I was generally met with raised eyebrows

Then expected to explain myself,

Or simply told that I just don't know how good I have it.

Then, of course, there’s my favorite variety of automatons:

The ones who didn’t ask, because they knew how I was feeling

Better than I did.

(I walked away from these interactions

Feeling less fine than before.)

Human interaction has taught me that it’s best for all involved 

To give no less, and no more, than what's asked for.

I've learned to not press 1,

To not stay on the line—

That when others ask, it’s really only polite

To never be anything less than fine.

NOT A GHOST YET



Is the tingle in my toes a side effect of transgression to the place for people who’ve suffered too much in life to be damned but get bored too easily for heaven–

Or is it my sleep deprived body reacting to a triple shot of espresso?

Who'd have thought a Java Chip Frappuccino would be the 16 ounces right between wanting life and hoping for sudden death?

Wandering idly past an open freezer in a Ralph's,

I pause

To lightly place my left hand 

On a bag of mixed berries.

The sensation seeps in

Grounding me.

I close my eyes.

It feels more real than a steering wheel 

or a Styrofoam cup from the lobby of a Motel 6:

I am reminded that I'm not a ghost yet.

Someone with curly hair on the bread aisle says my shoes are amazing. 

I say thank you.

I want to say,

Sorry I've lost 

the muscle memory 

to smile.

Last ten dollars?

Toothpaste. Watermelon gum.

Essentials of modern living.

I part a sea of squawking seagulls as I walk to my car.

Lately my waking hours 

feel more like dreams.

I hope that soon,

I will either wake up 

or sleep more soundly.

For now,

I’m here.

At least partly.

Until 

I don’t need sleep,

Until 

I am numb to all sensation,

Until

I can’t feel the sweat on the back of my neck

On a 95-degree day in Costa Mesa

Or I can’t feel the cold on a bag of frozen berries in a Ralph’s

I’m not a ghost yet

WATERMELON KISS

You were:

Natural auburn/freckles/Old Spice

I was:

Sleep deprivation/trust issues/eager

Your barbershop haircut and Rolex watch said “privileged”

Your honorary tattoos for your 11 friends who OD’d 

Said something else

I sipped a watermelon margarita 

That had plenty of tequila

You kept looking at me like you didn’t want to blink.

First kiss I was floored/

Wanted more

Then I thought about it too much/

Worried I'd never have better

I loved that you kissed me hard/

Like you knew only kisses could hold me together/

Like you wanted me to know you meant it

Effortless was/

Being with you/

Was—

Effortless.

“Hmm,” you said,

With a big, stupid grin.

“Tastes like watermelon.”

I giggled. You said, 

“I liked it”

When you drove me home 

Your cheeks were hurting from smiling

Being with you was effortless/

I feared I could get used to it

I think you did, too

[Didn't you?]

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