by Haley Morgan McKinnon
this morning I wake up and I am stronger
there is sunlight through the window and I open my mouth to drink it
may it turn into new breath in my lungs
I fluff the pillows that I almost tore apart last night in the grip of my grief like a snake
clutching the life from its prey except I am the prey and I am the snake
I turn the pillows around to hide the stains of my mascara, they will be found anyway
and by tomorrow I will have been washed from these sheets
I rinse my face of dried salt and wash the heaviness from my hair
I bury myself in water until I think there is enough to power me
I am baptized and I come out scrubbed clean of sadness and sin
pink and glowing like a sunset, it will last just as long but it is beautiful
when you wake in your morning and my afternoon I know you will ask me how I’m feeling
I will tell you I am better and I will not be lying
I will tell you I’m sorry for what I said when I was sad
what can I do but apologize for the galactic spiral I had inside me, you reached your arm down
my throat to pull it out but I swallowed you whole to feed the warmth it craves and
I have always called that love
my veins turn black with gossip vines pulling voices of ghosts from my mouth
this is all they know how to say
and even 3,000 miles away I will be sorry for sending my ghosts to haunt you
and you will tell me not to say I’m sorry
anymore
but I have been sorry for so long the words have left bruises on my tongue, blood pooled
from all the times I have tried to bite them down, I spat them at you and it stained the sheets red
you couldn’t see it but they were all I had to offer
from within the fetal crook of my crescent body, white skin suspended in the dark like
the moon itself which has never asked for help to be held up
they didn’t teach me when I was young how to be afraid of myself
I asked you how to fight my own mind and you said
go to sleep, in the morning it will all be over, the nightmares are worse when you live them
you said
listen to me
you said
I will be here
and I know you will hold me even when I am a grenade
and I know you will hold me even when I am an earthquake
and I know you will hold me even when I am so heavy
this morning I wake up and I am stronger
in the bathroom mirror I pretend this vial is my skin and I conceal these purple swells
in art class they taught us we can’t paint light over dark because light is a boat in an ocean storm
and light is a rose laid on top of a grave and light is a hand placed over my mouth
and so I leave this hotel room wearing light like it’s good enough
you sleep a continent away and I close the door
on a place I hope will forget me
Haley Morgan McKinnon is an emerging poet based in Portland, OR. She holds a BA in Creative Writing from Pacific University, and works as an editor for Cascadia Rising Review. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Seaglass Hearts from Stormy Island Publishing, The Almagre Review, and TROU Magazine. Follow her @haleymmckinnon.