By Jessica Holland

The stars in my head cease
to explode these days.
I am no longer screaming
at you in a stranger’s garage—
but I cringe at the memory of it.

I think of the woman I never thanked
(not my mother), but another
patient, raking the rat’s nest out of
my hair in the hospital, holding her
pregnant belly, singing as the nurses sat back.

I wept when I saw snow
for the fourth time. I was the Iowan
weather, even before I moved
here. I mailed my life to the
Midwest just to throw it away when I got here.

I lack the capability now
to weep for the snow; and myself.
It’s for the best because I am no longer
searching for friends or lovers behind
dumpsters in drunken dreams.

My now love tells me he forgets
That everyday I take tablets that make me
Perpetually shake, dig my fingernails weekly
Into self-sewn scars.

It was            meant            to be     

a compliment.

Jessica is a writer and poet based in Des Moines, Iowa. She has been published in New Moon and New Horizons magazine. Outside of writing, she is eerily good at laser tag, a regular coffee shop patron and a loving cat mom. You can find her in the woods.