seams and stitching ♡ published

11:11

11:11 is the wish minute.

in this minute, these sixty seconds,

we can ask the stars for

whatever we want. maybe this

is a family tradition, maybe

we are the only ones who shout

out across apartments, "it's 11:11,

make a wish!" and close

our eyes tightly, wishing wishing wishing like that mere minute

is a handful of stardust,

a moonbeam in a mason jar,

a syzygy at our feet or an

anti-gravity potion poured down

our throats. we have a lot to wish for,

despite the distance we have come.

yes, we traded the unforgiving sidewalk in for our small apartment.

and yes, we sobered up the

refrigerator, and we deprived our lungs of nicotine until

they forgot how badly they yearned

for black smoke. and yes,

our clothes have been restitched and

we pawned the jewelry to

pay for the bills. it's true we are

weaning ourselves off of the medication, and it's also true we

have loosened our corseted throats

to allow ourselves the fresh air

of laughter. we cannot deny that

we are healing, the windows are

open in every room and though

these feelings are unfamiliar,

we are gaining enough strength to

move on. we do not need

the psychiatrist's couch as much,

we have checked out of the hospital,

food can stay down now and

it does not cut us up inside to smile.

we can look each other in the eyes.

but there are days we have our relapses. there are days

our lungs have flashbacks of

smoke and chemical blood,

there are nights we cannot imagine

the sunlight deeming our windows

worthy of streaming through,

when the corsets we laced with

our mistakes and memories

have tightened as we night-mared the nights away,

when the fridge is filled with shameful spirits that haunt us in our sleep

and our breath is soaked in

strange rotten sweetness.

the small white ovals call for us,

and our smiles are more like

baring of the teeth. the food

keeps rising in our throats,

we check back into the hospital

and curl up on the psychiatrist's couch once again. the stitching

unravels with every breath

we reel desperately into our chests

and it feels as if our wounds

are not healing, but festering.

when these days come, we

gather on our porch. remind

ourselves that we are here,

even when it feels that there

are oceans between us.

we remind each other, when the relapse courses through our veins,

to watch the time tick by until

11:11 is here and make a wish.

we tell each other that we will be

each other's handfuls of stardust,

each other's moonbeams in mason jars, each other's syzygies at our feet

or each other's anti-gravity potions

poured down our throats.

we are sparklers dwindling down

between our finger tips, dying

valiantly against the black sky

of our past, crackling with light

and heat and hope despite

the short minute we have left.