three poems: by a thread / hello doctor, my old friend /love notes to self, despairing - VII by Lauren Bender

by a thread

​I go where I exist, to the dim sunken corner, your leg
wedged between my two legs,
 
single curtain to shut out the unwanted, lyrics white
on black above the bed, and I don't think
 
about the creepy man from the sandwich shop who likes
how pudgy I am, and I don't think
 
about the lamppost that flew through your window
during the hurricane, and I only think
 
off and on about our sicknesses, and I don't think
about the sad words on the walls or
 
that night the ambulance came or how I am always
crawling into your lap in inappropriate
 
places. It is four thirty in the afternoon, and I am late
for living up to my last name. I have left
 
the house to work out its own feelings, all terrible
ones like anger and jealousy and disgust,
 
and could it be that a nap with you will solve
this monumental problem, thinks
 
the busted adolescent brain. But I am so tired,
and you are so, so tired
 
that when my sister asks what's fun about going over
to a friend's house just to sleep,
 
I default to my classic response to questions from
healthy people and stare at her
 
in silence, hate pooling in my eyes. The world asks
too much to demand I explain sadness too.

hello doctor, my old friend

​I follow your legs up the stairs
 
and talk to them about my feelings;
 
this is always what I'm doing.
 
They are flawless and hairless,
and I can't stop staring.
They seem to fall out of your black skirt
announcing you – here I am, your savior,
at least the one you hired this week.
 
They keep interrupting my stories
with questions about why I love them.
 
And I tell them, I don’t know;
why does anyone love anything?
 
Maybe when they catch the light, they look like me,
my legs, if I was living another life,
your life, where I could be happy, no doubt,
 
and not fall asleep tucked in question marks.
Even though you are a presentation,
never mind seeing beneath the surface. Not now.
Playing dress-up is only the beginning
of growing up, of the transformation.
 
Can I imagine such a world,
 
where eyes find themselves at my hemline
 
and envy fogs away the self?

​love notes to self, despairing - VII

Parts I-VI
Part VII

​hi baby
 
     can you keep your eyes open
 
you set your phone's alarm for half an hour later     curl on the couch     hold it in your hands     pressed against your chest     like a stuffed animal that sings and purrs out of nowhere     and makes your ❤ pound so hard
 
(and you can't remember if having a ❤ was like this before     if this is just what a normal ❤ feels like)
 
     sweet❤ she has to cancel
 
you say no problem     fine     whatever     I'll therapist myself?     surely I've clocked enough hours to get the job done
 
check your phone     and it     (you)     says     calm down     your life is not ruined     calm down calm down calm down     life is always a mess     and loud     and you     can be such a good little self-soother     when you bother to try
 
     right baby
 
you slam your fist against     anything not working     keep hitting     hard     and the more you hit things     the more you want to hit things     things that would shatter     things that would say stop     you're ridiculous
 
and     well     I'm a little worried about your ❤     with this     have you been trying to--
 
hi baby
 
     you're not listening to a word I say are you

Lauren Bender

lives in Burlington, VT. Her work has appeared in IDK Magazine, The Collapsar, Gyroscope Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Yes Poetry, and others. You can find her on twitter @benderpoet.