Lizzy Burnam 🐞

I’ve stolen whole bags of apples out of compost bins. 
I’ve eaten around the bruises. 
I’ve worn a soft white sweater and walked along the beach. 
I’ve loved men I shouldn’t have. 
I’ve continued loving them and thought deeply about sin. 
I’ve listened to the sounds of birdsong and honking cars and taken comfort in both. 
I’ve opened a tool shed door and found thousands of ladybugs crawling up the walls inside. 
I’ve watched the shaft of yellow light grow thicker as a door opened up on me. 
I’ve smelled lilac, garlic, leather, paint thinner, burning pine, stale sweat, piss, whiskey, rotting meat, ambergris, and aftershave. 
I’ve worn a satin robe with nothing underneath. 
I’ve slept in the sun and collected freckles. 
I’ve cut lines, hearts, and X’s into my skin with a steel pocketknife. 
I’ve rubbed coconut oil on my shoulders and kneaded the knots away. 
I’ve dipped gingersnap cookies into mason jars of red wine and sparkled at the taste. 
I’ve eaten entire cakes, family-sized bags of potato chips, buckets of ice cream—not tasted a thing—and thrown it all up in a public bathroom. 
I’ve seen the dust illuminated by strobe lights. 
I’ve brewed peppermint tea and warmed my fingers in the hot steam. 
I’ve spoken when I shouldn’t have. 
I’ve failed to speak when I desperately wanted to. 
I’ve felt the buzzing in my skull before passing out cold on the floor. 
I’ve been caught when I fell. 
I’ve dipped my bare feet into the lake and watched the water ripple around them. 
I’ve felt candle wax cool and harden on my skin. 
I’ve woken up in a pile of crumbled newspaper with paint streaked across my forehead. 
I’ve held babies, kittens, snakes, frogs, and spiders. 
I’ve sat for hours in a hospital waiting room, staring at the flat, tanned bellies of women in outdated magazines. 
I’ve painted my toenails red, pink, purple, black, blue, and white, but never green. 
I’ve said “never,” and I’ve meant it, and I’ve learned that meaning it doesn’t make it true. 
I’ve hunted for the truth and found the gun was pointed at my own temple the entire time. 
I’ve rested in the driver’s seat of a parked car and stared blankly out the window. 
I’ve held a small nest of fire in my palm. 
I’ve apologized. 
I’ve looked for too long at the skin on my face in the mirror. 
I’ve ripped up pages of poems and started over. 
I’ve felt the wind caress my hair and stopped on the snowy trail to savor its touch just a little longer.